And The Universe Decrees
by CescaLR
Summary: Ensamble cast; there are far more characters than the section allows. Summary: There's this thing you feel, when you know something is about to change. Everyone's about to be surprised. The Sorting Hat never knew mixing things up and putting people where their heart should really be versus where they want to go and where their family has gone before them would turn out so
1. The Winds Of Change Shall Blow Again

**Summary: There's this thing you feel, when you know something is about to change.**

 **Everyone's about to be surprised. The Sorting Hat never knew mixing things up and putting people where their heart should really be versus where they want to go and where their family has gone before them would turn out so entertaining. He should do this more often. Notes:**

 **For Before_i_sleep.**

 **A requested fic, but one I was probably going to do anyway. Did you think it would get this in depth? No? Because I didn't, and I'm writing it, lmao.**

 **(See the end of the work for more notes.)**

* * *

The Sorting Hat has been around for a very, very, _very_ long time.

The result of this, is, of course, being very bored, and growing complacent. There was a time when he was a young hat that he would delve into the deepest parts of a person, use the magic he's been gifted by Rowena to see themselves, as they are and as they _could_ be, if given the chance, and there was a time when The Sorting Hat truly enjoyed his existence.

But that was lifetimes ago. A thousand years is a long time for a sentient hat, is all he's saying, and so - yes, perhaps he's grown complacent. Nothing he ever did really seemed to change much, in the end - but, perhaps leaving the wizarding world with his worst work for so long would mean that now, if he were to do his job properly... something might be accomplished?

Oh, who's he kidding? The Sorting Hat had overheard Albus with his honeyed words talking about the Potter's child coming to Hogwarts this year; the very same boy that _supposedly_ offed Tom a decade back.

Tom is still alive. The Hat knows this because Hogwarts knows this, and Hogwarts will never forget her children. Mother hen, that one.

Still. The Hat would, if he were human, think about blaming himself for not seeing the dangers of placing Slytherin's descendant into his ancestor's old house. But damn him, the Hat had gotten nostalgic.

(After all, he's Godric's hat first and foremost. And have you ever wondered why Godric's sword was silver when his colour is gold, and Salazar's locket was gold when his colour was silver?)

Regardless of all that, perhaps now is the time to snap out of his complacency. It will require some thinking and reasoning, but Rowena was always good at that, and the convincing people his choices will be for the best, well, that'll be Helga's job.

Thank the lord for them putting their personalities, their strengths, into him. He'd be a rather useless hat if they hadn't.

* * *

 _"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."_

* * *

Susan refused to be more nervous than was necessary. She wasn't last in the group, but she wasn't first, either, so that gave Susan a little room to breathe without too much time to worry.

This would all be fine. Susan wasn't certain which house to expect - perhaps Hufflepuff, Bones' tended to go there above all else - though it wasn't unheard of; to find a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor or Slytherin Bones - however, Susan didn't truly mind either way. Her aunt had raised her well, Susan knows - raised her to know of the good and the bad from all houses, to know that it isn't the group that is bad or good but the individual person - and Susan hopes that no matter where she goes, she won't grow to idolise her own house to the detriment of the others.

Still.

 _Hannah Abbot; Gryffindor - huh, though she'd have been Hufflepuff for sure -_

On it went. Then, it was Susan's turn.

"Bones, Susan." Professor McGonagall calls out, and Susan strides forwards, head up and hands clenched.

She sits on the stool and places the hat firmly on her head.

 _"Hmm, a Bones I see. Your Aunt was an interesting one, I'd wager, raised by her, you're the same..."_

Susan didn't respond. This was not up to her, after all.

 _"Usually I'd let you try and influence me. Apologies, Susan, but that is not the case today."_

 _"A bright mind, a brave soul, a good heart. You'd do well in Gryffindor, but I've slacked on the Ravenclaw side as of late. I apologize for your housemates; a lot of them are closed-minded. Perhaps you might be able to help... or perhaps not. We shall see with time."_

"Ravenclaw!" The hat calls out, and Susan removes it, moves over to her new table. There have been a few new Ravenclaws, though one - Hermione Granger - is focusing intently on the sorting, and so Susan should probably do the same. Regardless, she is intrigued as to see who might join her.

After her, Terrance Boot went to Gryffindor, which seemed apt from what she could tell of him due to their interaction on the train. More went past, some she recognized and some she did not.

Of course, there was one she was truly interested in seeing. However, a few surprises came beforehand.

A boy - Neville Longbottom; shy and sweet, from their one interaction on the train (he'd lost his toad), the boy went to Hufflepuff - like his mother had, Susan is aware - but had, unfortunately, forgotten to take off the hat and had to go give it to the following boy, MacDougal.

"Malfoy, Draco," Was called out, a few people later, and from her Aunt's stories of the boy, Susan predicted Slytherin, just like his father had been and his mother had been before him.

It was a bit more time than she expected before the hat shouted out its choice, and the Malfoy boy had been quickly getting pinker in his apparent anger and frustration.

"Hufflepuff!" The hat called out, and there was a kind of stillness. When Goyle had gone to Hufflepuff and Crabbe to Gryffindor, sure, it had been unexpected - mainly because the two had shown no signs of any kind of personality - but this, this was -

Wholly unprecedented. Susan isn't aware of any Hufflepuff Malfoys.

Still. Susan rather thinks the boy is overreacting, and McGonagall seems to agree, as she nudges the child in the shoulder as if to remind him to go to his table. Numbly, which is rather over the top, but still - Numbly, the boy removes the hat and goes over there, sits down and avoids looking at anyone in particular - especially the Slytherin table and the group he'd been standing amongst in the line, Susan could tell.

Anyway. Susan returns her attention to the sorting.

There are no more Ravenclaws for a bit - Parkinson goes to Gryffindor and very nearly throws a fit, A 'Padma Patil' goes to Hufflepuff and her twin, Parvati, goes to Slytherin - and then...

"Potter, Harry."

Susan's attention turned to the boy in question, as did the attention of the rest of the hall's occupants.

As he stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"Potter, did she say?"

"The Harry Potter?"

"What, is he famous?" Fletchley mutters, frowning over at the boy. He's scrawnier than Susan expected, but the mess of black hair, green eyes, glasses, and that scar is exactly what her Aunt had said he'd look like, 'mark her words (he'll be the spitting image of his father').

"Yes," Granger frowns at him. "Did you not think to read up on this world's history?"

While those two bicker some more, Susan turns her attention back to the Potter boy. He - seems nervous, Susan analyses. Nervous, and unsure of himself. Susan expected more from their saviour, to be truthful, though perhaps she should not have. Susan doubts she'd be any different in his situation, after all.

Still. It's nice to know that he isn't full of himself, certainly. Susan's aunt had been wary of having to deal with an entitled child saviour, but that appears to not be the case.

It takes much, much longer than anyone else's turn. As time passes, the boy seems to get paler and paler - if that were possible; if Susan didn't know how people worked, she'd say he'd literally never seen the light of day. Meaning, the boy looks to have a severe deficiency in... whatever it is you get from sunlight that you need - under the hat, and it was so big on him that you couldn't see his face, so Susan couldn't claim to know what he was feeling, aside from perhaps nervousness.

"Slytherin." The hat - _snaps._ Susan blinks; she didn't know the hat could snap - that it could show any kind of emotion. It is, after all, just a hat.

Right?

The Room was silent. It was worse than with Malfoy's sorting - a Hufflepuff Malfoy was unheard of... but that wasn't a bad thing. Actually, her Aunt - for all of her supposed lack of judgment - would say it was a good thing, that it showed he wasn't like his father.

(Her Aunt had never exactly believed the whole 'imperious' thing, but they couldn't exactly prove it now. Too much time has passed, they wouldn't let the trials be reopened even at her Aunt's insistence.)

For a Potter to be in Slytherin - a family full of Gryffindors, with now a single Slytherin descendent...

Susan took pause. She wasn't the only one.

Potter stood, shaking slightly, and Susan immediately felt bad. He's - a kid, like her, like all of them, and so -

Susan claps. She's not a Slytherin, so she doubts it'll make them clap, but maybe -

Hermione follows with a look in her eyes that Susan can't quite understand. Hermione nudges Fletchly, and he starts clapping, and then there's this spattering of clapping from others across the hall.

Then there's clapping from the line -

 _It's a Weasley. A Weasley, clapping for a_ _ **Slytherin**_ _sorting._

 _What._

Okay, so Susan tries her best not to judge, but this is decidedly strange.

More people start to clap after that. A kid from a light family, clapping for a kid from a light family that just so happens to be put into Slytherin.

Most people are still in shock - but apparently, this was what Potter had been looking for, Merlin knows why, and he seems less tense, less likely to just bolt from the room.

Potter goes to the table of his new house. The Patil girl, and the Brocklehurst girl - the only two Slytherins so far - smile at him in solidarity. Susan can't see if he smiles back.

After that, Susan pays some attention to the Weasley that clapped for a Slytherin. It's just - plain odd, and so sue her but she's intrigued.

Once its the boy's turn, he goes up, and Susan knows him to be -

"Ron Weasley,"

\- and nods to herself (she was right) and waits.

The sorting takes less, far less time than it took for Harry Potter, and Susan - as well as everyone else, including his family - expects Gryffindor.

The room is silent when he stands, walks over to the table and sits next to Potter, who Susan can see from the side of his face is grinning.

 _A Weasley. In_ _ **Slytherin.**_

The world's gone mad. Susan doesn't judge, or she hopes she doesn't, but that's not something you can't find _horribly strange._

Her Aunt's going to find some surprises in Susan's letter, that's for sure.

But regardless, the sorting must continue. And so it does.

There's a few more, then Zabini goes to Ravenclaw and sits beside her. "Bones." He greets.

"Zabini," She responds. Politely. Susan's heard of his mother's ways, but perhaps Blaize is not like that.

Only perhaps, though. _Only perhaps_.

* * *

Dumbledore calls a staff meeting - not in the staff room, but in his office, which in and of itself is strange - and so the teachers go.

"What is it, Albus?" Minerva asks.

"I was about to start brewing." Severus doesn't lie. He was about to start brewing a potion to cure the headache he's gotten.

 _A Weasley. And a Potter. In_ _ **his**_ _house._

Gah.

Dumbledore twinkles his eyes at them, smiles and nods to the seats. Irritably, Severus smoothly drops into one and looks over at the old wizard expectantly.

"Well?" He asks - demands, really - and ignores Minerva's disapproving look.

"The Hat wishes to talk to us all," The man says, and Severus sighs mentally.

"As I do," The Hat drawls in it's... strange... way, stares - as only a hat can - around at each of them in turn.

"I suppose you all have queries as to why I made the choices I did tonight? You full well know I cannot divulge anything I saw to anyone but the person themselves."

There is a pause, likely for dramatic effect. Severus needs a drink, some sleep, and a new job.

Treating the boy... _civilly_ was not part of the deal.

"Because of this, I must ask you instead to ask yourselves; what is wrong, exactly, with the choices I made tonight?"

"You put a _Malfoy_ in _Hufflepuff,"_ Severus sneers.

"Indeed." The hat says, agreeably. "The same place I rather should have put his mother; he's a lot more like her than you know, Severus Snape."

Snape pursed his lips. _Sure._ It's not like the boy embodies his father in every way possible, not at all.

"And the Parkinson girl? How do you think her family would react to a Gryffindor child?"

"Not a part of the decision process." The hat replied to Minerva. "I look into the child's soul and I see all that they are and all that they could be, and I sort them accordingly. I have, indeed, made mistakes. Placed a child where they should go, certainly, never once have I not done that - but I have recently placed them more accordingly to the environment and outside factors than the child themselves. Riddle, for example, should rather have been a Ravenclaw."

Albus suddenly looks grave. "That was fifty years ago."

"Yes," The hat sighed. "Indeed it was."

Albus seemed dimmer than before, the twinkle gone from his eyes.

"What are you trying to accomplish?"

"Fixing my mistakes." The hat says, and then the slit-for-a-mouth closes and the 'eyebrows' smooth out, and they will get no more from the hat than this.

"You may return to your duties," Albus says heavily, and the teachers disperse.

Severus _really_ needs a drink.

* * *

Harry looks around the dungeon corridors as they go deeper, towards the Slytherin Common Room.

 _Not a witch or wizard that didn't go bad that wasn't in Slytherin._ Or something like that. Regardless; Harry didn't want to be considered evil. He had enough of a negative opinion on himself back at the Dursley's, thank you very much. And also, being in the house of the person that killed his parents... Harry is quite honestly _not happy_ with this situation.

At least some people don't seem to mind. A few Ravenclaws, from what he could tell. Ron, too, which had been a massive relief, and a couple of others from the rest of the houses.

They reach the entrance - a wall, it looks like, with a faint, faded etching of a snake. Harry swore he saw it move, but that couldn't be possible, could it?

Still. Harry looked closer -

"Yes, you see it, don't you?" The prefect, Gemma Fawley, asks rhetorically. "This is the entrance. There's a faint snake etched into the wall to help you find the place where you need to speak the password. This year's password is _-_ " Here, the girl for a split-second wrinkles her nose in distaste before it's gone - " _Purity._ Shall we?"

At her words, the wall opened to reveal the common room.

* * *

 _The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in carved chairs._

* * *

"Welcome to your home for the next seven years," Fawley says, nods to an upper year who greets her then turns back around to them. "The hallway down to the left is the boys' dorms, and the hallway over and up to the right is the girls' dorms. So long as your intentions aren't untoward, you can move freely between dorms regardless of gender. You don't want to find out what happens if your intentions are so."

Fawley looks at all of them in turn, a warning look on her face. "Understood?"

Ron and the rest of them nod and mumble agreements, and the prefect seems satisfied enough with this.

"Right, well, make yourselves at home, then. Potter, Weasley, I'll need to talk to you separately."

Patil and Brocklehurst nod and make their way over to the couches in front of the fire-place.

"Over here boys." Fawley gestures, and starts walking to the upper area of the common room.

Ron shares a look with Harry and then follows.

Once they arrive, Fawley purses her lips and frowns at them. "What did you say to the hat, huh?"

Harry blinks.

Ron feels a little awkward at the question, really, and glares because its none of her business, honestly, and she should shove off.

"Because," Fawley continues when she gets no response, "I'm guessing you didn't want Slytherin, what with how long it took the two of you."

 _Actually,_ Ron thought, _You'd be wrong there._

"Sorry," Harry mumbles, hunches in on himself slightly. "I just-"

"Didn't want to go to the house of You-Know-Who?" Fawley says bluntly. "Because you know that's only claimed, right? We've no idea if he even went to Hogwarts; his name was French, you know. Not that anyone bothered to pronounce it without the t, but yeah."

Harry looks up at Fawley - a little hopeful. Ron's a little more cautious about believing that, but it _could_ be true.

Bloody well unlikely, but if it makes Harry feel a bit better about this...

Fawley softens, ever so slightly. "Look." She says, quieter. "Slytherin isn't what everyone says it is. Sure, a lot of purists get in here, and sure, we've produced dark wizards. But every house has that chance; the ideology is just something that pervades Britain's elite, and for the latter, well, that's wholly on the individual and their family. Anyway - Slytherin's got Merlin. What other house can boast that, eh?"

Fawley smiles slightly at the both of them as if that was supposed to be - Ron doesn't know, but... the idea of being in the same house that the greatest wizard ever to exist was in...

It - means something. Surely, his brothers can't claim that.

"The point is," Fawly carries on, "You two, as much as I don't want to say this, should at the same time as accepting your house, becoming proud of it... be wary. There are people here from families that don't like either of you, and that's unfortunate but true. Luckily, for you, your year group is the smallest we've had in a while; four Slytherins. Which means you'll only be two to a dorm. But, at the same time, you'll be vulnerable to the older students. When out and about in the school, just - be careful. You won't have anything to worry about in here, of course, the wards and the runes and such prevent that, but out there..." Fawley shrugs. "I'd recommend caution. Not just from within our house, but from people who think you've gone dark. From people who will think you're evil because you're a snake. From people who just want easy targets, from people who want to boast that they won against _Harry Potter._ And you, Weasley, might want to be wary of your brothers. I don't know, and I don't claim to, but it might be that one or two of them aren't... happy with your sorting."

And with that, Fawley leaves.

"Do you think your family will mind?" Harry asks, and he seems worried. _Worried._

"No," Ron shakes his head. "And even if someone does, mum and dad won't let them for too long."

Harry nods. "What did you say to the Hat, anyway? Yours was the longest." Ron asked, out of curiosity - the same that made him ask about Harry's scar, and everything else.

"...we argued for a bit about Slytherin." He shrugged. "The hat considered everything else and dismissed them for whatever reason. He wouldn't actually _tell_ me why he was so focused on Slytherin, even though he knew why I didn't want to go there." Harry looked away.

"Guess it doesn't matter now." "Yeah," Ron muttered.

"And you?" Harry asked, and Ron - shrugged. He felt his ears burn, and they were probably bright red, but Ron lied anyway. "Nothing really," He said. "The hat argued with itself for a bit then sent me to Slytherin."

Harry nodded.

 _All I really said was that - well, I didn't think you should be alone._


	2. More Things Shall Change

_**Summary: She doesn't even think before throwing the powder into the fire.**_

 **Notes:**

 **(See the end of the chapter for notes.)**

* * *

It is the day following her son's sorting, and Narcissa receives a letter.

 _Mother,_

 _I regret to inform you of_ _there was a_ _ _during the sorting__

 _I'm a Hufflepuff._

 _Help._

 _Your son,_

 _Draco._

 _p.s. Please don't let father disown me Should I send a letter to_ _ _father?__

 _Addendum: I hope that you are well and that this doesn't cause any problems._

She doesn't hesitate, after reading, to move to the fireplace with the letter clutched in her fist, ignoring her Husband's calls. Narcissa also does not hesitate to throw the powder into the fire, to call out 'Tonks' Residence' ( _how crass_ ) and to disappear in a cloud of green, having used too much powder in her haste.

Narcissa's exit from the floo isn't very sophisticated - she's covered in soot, she stumbles on the landing and has to cough due to her suddenly dry throat.

The Mud- Andromeda's husband is sitting on the couch and looking at her, bewildered. This is to be expected, Narcissa knows; she hasn't visited her sister in all the years Andromeda has lived with this man.

(Aside from once. But that was long ago. A cold night, it had been. St. Mungo's was full, and Narcissa had been in disguise.

Her niece had been an adorable child. For one with tainted blood. Narcissa knows that that's due to the Black in her. Their family was always the good-looking one.)

"Well?" Narcissa - snaps, and she takes a moment of pause to collect herself. A lady doesn't _snap,_ after all. Narcissa sends a light sneer the man's way, and that is better. "Would you care to collect my sister? I must speak with her."

The man frowns at her, and calls out "Andi, your sister's here to see you," In a wary voice.

Honestly. It's like he's expecting her to start cursing him. Narcissa would never; she'd send Lucius. Much less chance of her getting put in Azkaban that way.

Her sister comes through from the entrance to the kitchen - Narcissa takes a moment to wrinkle her nose at her sibling's living conditions; _a small house, really Andi?_ \- and stares at Narcissa for a moment.

"Well?" Narcissa demands, which is better than snapping again. "Come over here."

Narcissa has never really been a demanding person. She's usually soft-spoken, or as much as you can be so when insulting those lower than yourself, and so perhaps Andromeda is in shock.

No matter.

Narcissa relents and moves over to Andromeda herself, feeling the fool for conceding even this much to her older sibling.

( _Oh,_ how she looks like Bella.)

"Take a look at this," Narcissa says, takes her sister's hand and closes it around her son's letter. "And respond to him." Narcissa pauses. "You know how to - deal. With a _Hufflepuff_ Black."

"Your son is a Malfoy, Cissy," Andromeda says, dumbly - and it must be the shock, Narcissa thinks because nobody's called her that since -

Well. It was a terrible nickname anyway. Narcissa wrinkles her nose in distaste before smoothing her expression out into a slight sneer. There. Much better.

"He's a Black first and foremost, Andromeda. As you well know." If only her cousin wasn't still kicking, then her son would be first in line for the Black fortune. As it stands, the traitor would never consider handing his money over to a Malfoy.

And so she has to concede to taking the name Malfoy and her son not having the name Black and their dynasty fading slowly into obscurity. One does need money in this society, after all, and lots of it at that.

Andromeda nods, removes her hand from Narcissa's grip and takes a gander at the letter.

When Andromeda looks back up, Narcissa is already gone.

* * *

Molly doesn't know what to think. Her son - _is in Slytherin._

The twins' letter had been full of jokes (as she'd expected) but there _had_ been an underlying _tone_ that -

Made her proud of them.

( _If you disown him, mum, dad, you're a bigger pair of twats than the Malfoys.)_

(Not that they put it so plainly, but then, Molly would never let them get away with talking to her and Arthur like that. At least she knows that there's nothing to worry about on that front.)

But Percy, on the other hand...

 _Mother,_

 _I regret to inform you there was a terrible surprise during the sorting this year Ron_

 _Mother_

 _Ron is in Slytherin. He has made friends with Harry Potter, which would be good news and a good omen if it weren't for the fact that he's also a Slytherin._

 _We both know how people in that house turn out; what should I do?_

 _Your son,_

 _Percy._

Molly has a howler to make. And a letter for her _Slytherin son._

Because he is her son. Her Ronnie. And being Slytherin will not change that. In fact, she's _proud_ of him. The first Weasley for generations not to be put in Gryffindor.

 _(Now there's something Ron's brothers hadn't already done before him.)_

* * *

Neville shakily opens the letter his grandmother had sent. It wasn't a howler, which was a relief - but he was still nervous. For all his childhood, it had been _Gryffindor; make your father proud, Neville. I know you'll be Gryffindor, like your father. Gryffindor, like all the Longbottoms before you. Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor._

Neville wasn't a Gryffindor. He'd let her down. _Again._

 _Neville Longbottom,_

 _Though you may not be in Gryffindor like your father, Hufflepuff is not as bad as it could be. Your mother was in Hufflepuff, after all._

 _Alice was a muggleborn. Both her parents are dead. However, perhaps you can let her legacy live on within yourself if you cannot your father's._

 _Signed,_

 _Augusta Longbottom._

Neville lowers the letter. It's not - nicely worded, but his Grandmother's letters never are. But -

His mother was in Hufflepuff.

Maybe... maybe he isn't that useless after all.

Neville heard the door open and quickly stuffed the letter into his pocket. He'd respond later.

It was Malfoy who entered - a scrap of... _muggle paper_ in his hand.

How strange. Malfoy sees him looking, though, and hides it in his pocket, and sneers.

"What're you crying about, Longbottom?"

"N-nothing," Neville says, turns around hastily - he hadn't been _crying,_ but maybe he hadn't known his maternal grandparents were dead. And maybe he'd scared himself with thoughts of how badly the letter could have gone, or -

"Didn't expect Hufflepuff, then?" Malfoy says, snidely. Neville privately thinks he isn't one to talk but doesn't say that out loud. "N-not really," Neville responds, turns back around after hastily wiping his eyes.

"I'm surprised the hat even sorted you." Malfoy sneers. Neville doesn't know why Malfoy is like this and honestly, he doesn't care to. It - it _hurts,_ though.

"Why are you even _here?"_ Neville asks, quiet but - Neville isn't sure. Quiet _but._

Malfoy sneers and closes the curtains around his canopy. Well... alright then.

Neville stands and goes to leave the dorm room. Even if Malfoy wouldn't give him the same consideration, it's obvious the boy wants to be left alone.

And it's not like Neville particularly likes his company anyway. Besides; he has a letter to write.

* * *

Pansy hasn't sent a letter to her mother and father. She's not going to. It's not that she's _scared,_ or anything equally embarrassing, it's just -

They might not react - well.

A family of Slytherins. One Gryffindor. Pansy - she's heard this story before. And it ended with the Gryffindor in Azkaban.

She doesn't want to go to Azkaban. It had been a warning tale, after the war ended - _be a Slytherin, like your family. Else you'll end up like Black did._

A bad seed. But not really, Pansy thinks. Because to the outside world, the Slytherins are the bad seeds. Maybe some of them can be, but Pansy's mother, Pansy's father -

They've always treated her so _well._ Pampered her, really, like Draco's mother and occasionally father do to him, and like Zabini's mother does to him, and the Greengrass sisters' parents do to them.

They're rich. Even if Pansy isn't quite as rich as the rest of them, she's still far better off than most. There's bound to be a little spoiling, right?

Still. For all that her parents adore her - Pansy -

Pansy isn't sure they'd adore a _Gryffindor_ her. Even if that's what she's been all along and they've all just deluded themselves.

Because, well - Pansy's brash, at times, she knows this okay? She's brash and impulsive and really, _really_ bad at the mask a good little pureblood is supposed to learn before Hogwarts, but Pansy didn't think that meant she wasn't _Slytherin enough._

... it's more than just brashness, though. Pansy, she can be mean, she knows, but she does it _directly._ Slytherin's tend to be mean behind people's backs, they tend to figure out what makes a person tick and use it at the right time to hurt them the most. Pansy - she'll take what she knows and she'll hit hard, relentless and cruel, yes, but effective nonetheless. Pansy doesn't have time for mind games - a simple insult based on the obvious can be just as painful if done enough times.

If someone is poor, rag on that. If someone has bad sight, then poke at that. If someone has a strange feature, pick at that until it _bleeds._

The world of pureblood society, the purist, _supremacist_ one Pansy has been raised in, is cutthroat and harsh and elitist, and if you can't pull anyone down a peg so that you can take their place, you won't get anywhere. That's what her mother taught her, and what her father insisted, and it's what Pansy _knows,_ ultimately. It's what she's known all her life; that dogma, that ideology, that lifestyle.

And it's poison. And she doesn't know it. Because Pansy Parkinson is a product of her environment, and eleven years old.

How is she to know any better?

* * *

Hermione finds that being a Ravenclaw, whilst not her first choice, is likely better than being a Gryffindor would have been anyway.

The common room is in a tower, and just like she'd read there wasn't a password - you just had to answer a riddle, which was a great thinking exercise and honestly Hermione doesn't know why this is the only house with that system, but she digresses.

The common room itself is circular, like the tower it is inside, and it is _wonderful._ Blues and bronzes and silvers accentuating the room, with a similar charm as in the great hall covering the ceiling, although it is more static as it shows clouds always and eternally, however every now and again (according to Hogwarts: A History) the stars will come through and it is _the_ stars, she could actually use them to study for Astronomy, which sounds utterly wonderful.

And then there are the walls of books. Don't get her _started_ on the walls of books.

So yes. Hermione's first letter back to her parents is a good one. For Hermione rather likes Ravenclaw, and she finds talking to the other Ravenclaws can be an interesting time, especially when speaking with those that know magic she does not - it can be a great learning experience.

And... Hermione isn't lonely. Sure, not everyone in Ravenclaw finds all of this as exciting as she does, and sure, Finch-Fletchly is an annoying irritation that won't leave her alone, but Susan is nice enough and will listen to Hermione when she talks, and that's nice. Dean Thomas - while not as academically inclined _is_ brilliant at art both creatively and in the technical sense, for an eleven-year-old, and maybe Hermione should have figured Ravenclaw to be for more than just the academically inclined, because people can be smart in different ways, can be prodigies at things other than magic and maths, they can be good at music and art and science and everything else there's a subject for, as far as Hermione knows.

So yes. Hermione likes her new house. She's not sure how Gryffindor would have turned out, in all honesty, but either way, Hermione's glad that in the end, she got Ravenclaw instead.

* * *

 **Notes: a few more perspectives, and a few reactions. Thoughts?**


	3. It's Time For Potions Class

**Summary: The issue, Harry finds, with being Slytherin - is that _ _everyone__ hates you. Not just your own house; for being Harry Potter, for being raised by muggles, for being a Potter in general - but also the rest of the school, who hate you for being a snake, for being dark, for being default Evil, with a necessary capital E. Harry's finding that maybe this whole prejudice thing is more complex than he'd originally thought, is all.**

 _ **Notes: I'm re-writing the books in a weird way in that there's snippets of a lot of different people's POVs, and it jumps time pretty often too, so I figure rearranging the events a little to put potions as their first lesson can't be that bad. Also, you can reason it as Dumbledore speedily revising the timetable because he's worried about a Slytherin Harry and he wants Snape to check out the boy's mind and stuffs. To make sure they don't have a repeat-performance Riddle 2.0. Of course, Snape's not going to be fair about it. Why would he?**_

 **(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)**

* * *

The issue, Harry finds, with being Slytherin - is that _everyone_ hates you. Not just your own house; for being Harry Potter, for being raised by muggles, for being a Potter in general - but also the rest of the school, who hate you for being a snake, for being dark, for being default Evil, with a necessary capital E.

Harry's finding that maybe this whole prejudice thing is more complex than he'd originally thought, is all.

Ron and Harry exit the dorms early - very early; Harry's still used to an early start from the Dursleys' and Ron's family owns roosters so early morning wake-up calls are a constant thing - and they hurry through the getting ready process in order to escape from the Slytherin Dungeons as soon as possible.

(They've rather taken Gemma's advice to heart.)

It's six in the morning and the Castle is still being lit mostly by the braziers on the corners and the candles floating around everywhere. It's a charm, Ron tells him when Harry asks, that keeps the hot, melted wax from dripping down and burning the skin of those walking underneath. "Why do you even use candles and fire anyway?" Harry asks, fully aware of the witch burnings - at least _now_ he understands why Vernon liked to talk about that so much when he was younger. Ron shrugs. "Dad says its something about your muggle... lectricons?..." Ron glances at him and Harry tries his very best to suppress a laugh. "Electronics," He manages instead, and Ron's ears redden slightly. "Right," He mutters, then carries on. "Well, dad says they don't work well with magic. It can make them go haywire or - develop a life of their own, or - something." Ron scratches the back of his neck and shrugs again, as Harry processes this.

"A life of their own?" He asks, wary, and Ron nods. "Moving about, and - something like them having feelings and, uh..." Ron shrugs, yet again. "I'm - I don't really know much. Dad tends to talk your ear off about it whenever he gets the chance, so we all just sort of tune him out."

Alright, Harry thinks to himself. No electronics.

Breakfast doesn't start for another hour, or so Ron's been told, and they decide that, well, they'll probably need that hour to find their way out of the dungeons anyway.

The two set off for the Great Hall, in a likely futile attempt to not get lost.

* * *

Susan is woken by the light streaming in through the curtains, and now she remembers why she'd wanted Hufflepuff the most.

Towers, while places that have great views, also tend to be cold, and bright, and small, and circular. Ravenclaw tower is no different - it's not that small, really, Susan knows, but it is smaller than Gryffindor tower in - the, well, size of the circle, but the height is the same.

There are more Ravenclaw boys than girls, in Susan's year, which leaves her to share the dorm with just Granger. Which is fine, mind you - Susan doesn't dislike the girl's company, and once you get her started on a topic she enjoys Granger can be quite the conversationalist (so long as you like one-sided conversations) but, well.

"You're awake," Susan says, sleep still muffling her voice. She yawns, and wipes the sleep away from her eyes (that weird gritty stuff that Susan doesn't know the name of), then blinks across at the other bed.

"Yes," Granger says, frowning down at her book. She's dressed already, uniform impeccable and she's even wearing that merlin-dammed hat, her bag is next to her and its definitely bulging with far, far too many books.

You see, Granger can be a bit - intense, is all. And while Susan is usually all up for that; have passion for what you do and all... but Granger seems to survive on exactly seven hours of sleep a night, and books.

And... yeah, that seems about it, as far as Susan's aware.

"What time is it?" Susan groans out, drops back onto her bed, and feels tempted to roll over right on back into sleep.

"Seven." Hermione says, "We have an hour for breakfast, technically two - though I doubt you'll want to explain why you're late to lessons so waiting to the end isn't the best plan - and we should get our timetables during it, so, Susan, we should probably head down now."

Susan groans into her pillow. Hermione sighs.

"You'll likely get a reply from your aunt when the post arrives," Hermione says, breezily, and Susan bolts upright. "You think she'd get back to me that quickly?"

"Well," Hermione says, then holds up her book. "I got a subscription to the Prophet and I really don't want to miss it, so we're going down now either way."

Susan blinks, reads the title of the book. "You're... reading up about the history of wizarding journalism?"

What.

"Yes!" Hermione smiles winningly, nods and closes her book. "MacDougal mentioned the Daily Prophet last night and I was curious," She says as if its perfectly average behaviour to hear about a newspaper and then decide to research exactly how said news publication came about and the whole history surrounding journalism in its entirety.

"Okay," Susan says, hopefully not in a way that signals 'what, just what' because, while Susan might feel that, it's more at the thought of doing what Granger is doing herself. Granger can do whatever she wants, as long as it's legal, as far as Susan is concerned. Hell, she'll even encourage it. People shouldn't be told not to pursue their interests, in Susan's humble opinion.

"Anyway," Granger continues, "I really don't want to miss the morning post, so..."

Susan takes the hint, sighs dramatically and gets up off of her comfortable new bed. "Yeah, alright," She says, and returns Hermione's smile.

* * *

"Stop stop _stop-"_

"Hey!" Seamus yells out, tries to snatch for his wand, but the older year is, well, older and much bigger, so he has no chance.

"That's not even - what, _what_ were you even trying to _accomplish?"_ Seamus blinks at the seventh year. "Turning my water into rum, obviously."

Because really. That's what he'd been saying the whole time, how could she have not picked up on that?

The girl shrugs, expression considering (Seamus could tell that it was considering in a positive way, thankfully). "While I admire your cause, I don't even think there's a spell for that in actual magic, let alone what you were doing." Seamus frowns up at her, mightily annoyed. "Oh yeah?" He challenges. "Yeah," She dismisses his challenge, "But that doesn't honestly matter because it just means there's something new to be made. So, how about you promise not to try this again without preparation and supervision - preferably from yours truly for any... taste testing that might be required, you know - and the proper safety measures, and I'll give you your wand back, yeah?"

Seamus grumbles, but acquiesces and agrees to her terms.

"Great!" She chirps. "Alright then, business partner, what might your name be?"

"Seamus Finnegan," Seamus says, frowns at her. "And you?"

"Tonks," She grins. "Just Tonks, mind you. I'll hex you if you call me anything else, you hear?"

Seamus nods, takes back his wand and pockets it.

"Be careful where you store that," Tonks advises. "Don't want to accidentally curse yourself, do you?"

* * *

Neville was glad he wasn't the only Hufflepuff boy aside from Draco Malfoy because it meant he could avoid the other eleven-year-old whenever Neville felt like Malfoy seemed in the mood to torment him some more.

But not always. Neville was never the most well-organized person outside of the greenhouses, and Hogwarts appeared to be no different (he thought, with resignation) as Neville found himself waking at precisely the time that was a) too late for a good breakfast and b) might mean he'll miss getting the timetable, and wouldn't that be a disaster.

Neville's never had the best of memories, and he was honestly pretty worried that they'd expect him to learn his lesson times off-by-heart if he missed getting the timetable.

It was only when Neville returned to the dorm to grab his bag (he'd left it at the foot of his bed in his panic...) that he realised one of the beds still had its occupant.

Against his better judgment, Neville walks over, hesitantly, and knocks on the bedpost. "Uh..." He hesitates. Neville's not really sure what to call Draco Malfoy - because they're in the same house and so he thinks _maybe_ 'Draco', but then Neville doesn't really like him all that much and 'Draco' feels too... familiar.

"What?" He hears, saving him from having to decide, and Neville stammers out - "Oh - I - It, well, it's half eight," He says, "And Breakfast is almost over, and we might have missed getting the timetables."

There's a pause, and then Malfoy says something Neville can't quite hear and barges past into the showers.

Job done, Neville picks back up his bag and leaves the Hufflepuff Dungeon for the Great Hall.

* * *

Harry and Ron didn't need the entire hour to find the Great Hall - they must have taken a wrong turn, somewhere (or somewhen) because when they get there, it's packed, and the first person they ask says its - "Eight, pretty much." as she frowns at them. "D'you get lost, then?"

Harry and Ron share a glance, equally bewildered. "Must have," Harry said, and then sat across from her. "Parvati," She introduces herself. "And _you_ \- you're Harry Potter."

"And this is Ron," Harry says, uncomfortable, and shifts down the bench a bit so Ron can sit.

"Yeah; Weasley," Parvati says, nods to Ron. "I don't think we've met."

"It's unlikely," Ron agrees, before stacking food onto his plate.

"Where's your friend?" Harry asks, and Parvati sighs. "Homesick, literally. Took her to the hospital wing for a calming draught, we'll see her in lesson no doubt."

Harry nods and grabs some bacon for his plate.

"Oh look," Parvati says, nods down the table, "Here comes our Head of House. You know, he was supposed to talk to us last night as a - introduction thing? He didn't, though."

 _Obviously,_ Harry thinks and Ron says, and Parvati grins, shrugging. "Thought I'd point it out," She says affably, then proceeds to smother her cereal in pumpkin juice.

Harry blinks, shrugs, and turns his attention to their new Head of House. When Harry had looked at him during the feast the previous night, his scar had hurt - but right now there was no sign of such an occurrence happening again. Thankfully.

Professor Snape was a rather sallow man, with a slightly gaunt looking face, a hooked nose, and greasy hair. Harry turned back to his food once it looked like this 'Professor Snape' was coming their way.

"Timetables," The man says, voice monotone - he holds the papers out on one hand and flicks his wand, which makes the papers fly out to each of them. They were the last four, it seems, as Professor Snape drops the empty hand and after _glaring_ (Harry is certain it was glaring; he knows what being glared at is like) at them - though mostly Harry himself - for a moment, turns on the spot and storms back up to the teacher's table, cloak billowing out behind him.

"That's a cool trick," Parvati says. "Not tripping up on that cloak of his."

Ron is looking at the timetable, and Harry follows suit. "Potions first lesson," Ron grimace-groans, and Harry frowns, looks up at Professor Snape and glances between his housemates. "They say he favours Slytherins, so I figure we'll get to see if that's true or not."

"I don't think he's had a Weasley or a Potter before, though," Parvati points out. "Maybe his hatred will overcome his sense of duty as a Head of House."

Ron snorted. Harry almost felt the same, though he didn't think that he should pass judgment before actually having the lesson. And besides, Potions seemed interesting enough in his books, so how bad could it really be?

* * *

If Harry had thought that Snape might hate him, he'd been wrong.

Snape _loathed_ Harry.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons, near enough to the Slytherin Common room that Harry rather thought he could get away with leaving his potions kit in the dorm whenever he had the lesson after lunch. It was colder here than up in the main castle, colder here than even in the Slytherin Dungeons, which were situated right below the Lake - and would have been quite creepy enough _without_ the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. Harry figured they were _probably_ necessary for some potions - Professor Snape didn't seem the kind to put any unnecessary decoration in his classroom. Harry wondered whether the other teachers were the same but put that aside as he spied the Professor coming down the corridor.

"Well?" Professor Snape snapped. "Get inside, sit down. Slytherins on the left, Gryffindors on the right."

Harry was a bit surprised about the lax seating plan; usually, teachers like Professor Snape that he'd had in the past were very strict about where people sat and in what arrangement (girl, boy, girl, boy, alphabetical, etc). Still, Harry supposed perhaps he'd gauged Professor Snape wrong, and so he put those thoughts to one side and went, as instructed, to the left of the classroom. Ron sat next to him, and then behind them went Parvati. The girl in question was looking worriedly at the door to the classroom, and Harry remembered that her friend - or, well, the only other female Slytherin in their year - was in the Hospital Wing.

After all the students had chosen their seats, the right side of the room only just having enough for all the new Gryffindors, the Professor stands from his chair in a fluid motion, and beings to call attendance.

Professor Snape moves quickly through the twelve names on the Hufflepuff list - Brown through Davis through Malfoy and Roper - and then turns to the next roll of parchment, snaps out "Brocklehurst, Mandy" - and waits for a response.

"Uh, Professor?" Parvati asks, and then carries on without waiting for permission, "Mandy's in the hospital wing."

Snape - _sneers,_ here, and Harry's a little baffled by this, because - as a teacher - shouldn't he be at least a little more concerned? Apparently not, as Snape goes on to say "Will she be attending this first lesson or not, then?" Parvati winces, shrugs, and then says *as his eyes had narrowed at that) "I don't know, Professor."

"Professor Snape, or Sir," Snape snaps out, and then continues on with the roll call.

He pauses at Harry's name - which, granted, was the one after Parvati's, so it's more like he asks for her to say 'yes, _sir,'_ and then stops. For a moment, Snape stares at him, and Harry stares back.

The corner of Snape's mouth pulls up into a sneer. "Harry Potter - our new... _celebrity."_

Malfoy sniggers, along with Crabbe, but they are the only ones. Snape ignores them.

"Ron Weasley," He finishes, tone now flat and icy rather than sharp and harsh, and Ron says his 'yes, _Professor Snape',_ and they start the lesson.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word - Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Harry frowned at that last part - sure, some of his teachers back in primary hadn't been the best, but they didn't actively insult their students' intelligence in such a direct way. Harry didn't seem to be the only one of this opinion, although some took the speech in different ways. Some looked eager, some looked offended, and some looked intrigued.

Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. Harry quickly turned his head back to the Professor and paid attention. It wasn't strange being called out in class - though Harry was rather more used to being ignored - and Harry didn't want to make a bad first impression.

Not that Snape seemed to care much, but he was the adult here. The one with the authority.

(Harry can't complain, is what he's saying.)

"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry knew what an asphodel was; whenever his Aunt Petunia took him to the markets so that he could carry her purchases for her, she always muttered angrily under her breath about 'asphodels being so popular' and 'I don't even _like_ lilies, why are there so many?' - but Harry could only vaguely remember something in the potions book he'd read a bit of mentioning wormwood, and nothing else about the use of lilies in potions. He didn't understand what powdering asphodel would do to its effects, nor did he know anything about infusion in general - so how was Harry supposed to answer this? Surely, you aren't supposed to know something before you've taken the class that will teach you said something?

Harry glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was. Nobody else seemed to want to volunteer an answer, so Harry responded with "I don't know, sir," trying to be as polite as possible because perhaps there was something he was supposed to have studied prior to the lesson? Harry though it unlikely, but still. It was best to avoid the wrath of adults; as a child, Harry could do nothing against his treatment, even if it was unfair.

He'd never been able to do anything about the Dursleys, after all. Or the few awful teachers at his primary, or really anyone who was cruel in general.

Adults had all the power. In Harry's experience, it was best not to beg forgiveness or ask permission, because they would give you neither. Avoidance is the best tactic, and when that fails, be as polite as possible. Give them nothing they can use against you.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer.

"Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything."

Harry didn't know what fame had to do with anything at that moment - but he didn't say this out loud.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Now Harry had definitely never _once_ heard of a bezoar. Whatever it was, it didn't sound pleasant, but Harry knew quite well not to judge a book by its cover, so doing the same but for an ingredient and judging by its name, well, that would be ridiculous.

Harry tried not to look at Malfoy and Crabbe, who were shaking with laughter. It wasn't really hard, having had enough practice with Dudley and his gang, but it was sincerely off-putting because at least back in Surrey the teachers usually told the group to quiet down.

Harry had the distinct feeling Snape wouldn't be doing that to Malfoy or Crabbe, and he had the distinct feeling that Snape wouldn't do the same - ignoring them - if it were anyone else who was laughing.

"I don't know, sir," Harry said, and Snape's sneer grew.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold, dark eyes. He _had_ looked through his books at the Dursleys', as a matter of fact, but did Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi? Harry wasn't even sure that a bezoar would be in there; it didn't _sound_ like a plant. Though that was the potions book they'd been set - Snape wouldn't ask him questions he wouldn't be able to answer, right?

Harry found himself doubting that quite strongly. For some reason, Snape appeared to have it out for him, and Harry could not give a single reason as to why. He'd never once met the man!

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry truly felt bewildered. There was the lightest of sighs, and before Snape could comment on a student having the audacity to _sigh_ in his class, the door opened and let in a girl of average height and mousey brown hair. "I'm sorry I'm late, Professor," Mandy Brocklehurst says, moves to the seat next to Parvati.

"Detention after your last lesson." Snape snaps. "Meet me here at five, understood?"

Mandy nods, meekly, and Parvati glares at Snape. Harry thinks she's rather right to; the girl had been in the _hospital wing._ She had good reason to be late, and Snape knew that reason.

Harry was fast losing all chances of having respect for this teacher - first, he singles Harry out for no reason, and now he doesn't take into account circumstances? It's not fair, Harry thinks, and although Harry knows fairness is a very difficult thing to achieve, a teacher _should_ act professionally, and this isn't professional - it's petty.

"Well?" Snape snaps, and the person who'd sighed earlier - a Hufflepuff girl, Harry notes - puts her hand up in the air.

"I don't know, sir," Harry says, quiet. He doesn't know the girl's name, so he can't reference her by it, but he does say; "I think maybe you should give someone else a chance to answer, Professor." Because just asking Harry isn't fair to Harry, yes, but it also isn't fair to the other students.

One or two people laughed for a second, but Snape's eyes snapped to them and they quickly stopped. Malfoy and Crabbe had stopped laughing by the time Mandy had sat down, and they hadn't started up again.

"Quiet," Snape orders sharply. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

Ron scowls at Snape, and there's a sudden mad scramble to get out parchment and quills, pencils and pens and paper.

Harry writes down what he remembers, as neatly as he can when new to using a quill, and then places the writing instrument down and waits patiently for their next instructions.

"And a point will be taken from Slytherin House for your cheek, Potter."

There is genuine silence at that, and some students go so far as to look up from their notes and just _stare_ at Snape. As far as Ron knew and had told Harry, Snape favoured his house. He _never_ took points away, and for him to even take _one_ was an event worthy of genuine, flabbergasted shock.

Snape didn't seem to take notice of this, as he decided then to put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils.

Not that he'd taught them anything technical. Harry thought that you were supposed to do some sort of theory in this sort of subject - like cooking, or chemistry - alongside the practical, but he could be wrong. After all, it is a magical subject; Harry would have to be dense to think the education systems are the same.

Regardless, Snape swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville Longbottom had somehow managed to melt Seamus Finnegan's cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs. Seamus dragged Neville out of the range of the potion spill, ignoring the angry blemishes on his own right arm for the moment, and then everyone simply stopped once the two were out of danger.

"Neville!" Another Hufflepuff, Su Li, exclaims "Are you-"

"Silence, girl." Snape snaps, and then storms over to Neville and Seamus, the latter of who is attempting to cool down the burnt boils on his arm (after all, the potion had been quite hot) by flapping the sleeve of his robe over them.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

How was he supposed to know a mistake like that would do something this bad, Harry didn't know. It's not like Snape had warned them the potion could be _this_ dangerous; and why he was even getting eleven-year-olds to make a potion that can be dangerous this easily, Harry will never know. He shares a glance with Ron, who seems to be of the same opinion; brows lowered into a frown as he scowls at Snape.

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then he rounded on Su Li, who paled drastically under his glare. "You - Li - why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? You were right next to him; you should have seen him about to make the mistake. That's three points you've lost Hufflepuff."

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.

"Don't push it," he muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."

Harry wasn't the only one to think this was wildly unfair, however, as the Hufflepuff Padma Patil - Parvati's sister - spoke up. Her voice wasn't loud, but she was certain in her words. "Professor, Su was focusing on her own cauldron, and besides, she was one removed from Neville. Su wouldn't have been able to see him make the mistake, let alone know ahead of time."

Snape glowered at Padma. "Is that so?" He said, silkily, and Harry could see Parvati pale and shiver out of the corner of his eye. Padma said nothing in response - likely too scared to, and Harry didn't blame her - and so Snape simply turned around. "Class dismissed." He snapped, and stalked past them, opened a door behind his desk and shut it, loudly, behind himself.

* * *

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon, Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were low. He'd lost a house point in his first lesson, which would be bad enough, except its somehow worse, since Snape _never_ took house points away from his own house.

Why did Snape hate him so much that the Professor would ignore his usual biases in favour of being wholly unfair towards Harry?

"Cheer up," said Ron, "Snape's always taking points off Fred and George." "Yeah," Harry said moodily. "But Snape never takes points from Slytherin."

Ron shrugs. Harry gets that.

The two make their way out of the Dungeon, and up the Grand Staircase. Their next lesson is Transfiguration, and since the stairs like to move, and certain doors that make the journey quicker are only able to be opened at certain times or at certain intervals, they don't want to be late.

* * *

 _ **Notes: fun fact - the titles of chapters continue off of the title of the fic. 'And The Universe Decrees...' '...The Winds Of Change Shall blow Again', etc. Thought that was a fun little thing :)**_


	4. You Shall Return To Sender

**Summary: Susan gets an owl.**

 ** _Notes: Not as long as I'd like, but here it is._**

 ** _(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)_**

* * *

Millicent had been given a few tasks by her mother and father. Keep an eye on the students from notable families and which houses they go to. Regardless of the house you end up in, blend in. Adapt. _Change._

Bulstrodes have gotten by via keeping themselves in the background. By making themselves a necessary part of the Wizarding World's mechanisms, and disgusing themselves as simply part of the scenery.

The Bulstrodes aren't rich. The Bulstrodes have Troll blood, and her mother is her father's third cousin. Millicent knows the Troll part is why some families dislike them, and knows its also why the Flints are allies and the Notts help them out occasionally. Millicent's cousin had to go somewhere, after all, and Nott Sr. had offered.

They hadn't seen her in a long time. It's likely Nott is using her for her mixed troll-witch blood; as an unspeakable, he's never been able to tell them. Millicent is never sure whether he would or not, if allowed.

So yes. Millicent has a few tasks.

 _Mother, Father,_

 _Malfoy Jr. is in Hufflepuff. Parkinson went to Gryffindor, along with myself and Crabbe. Bones went to Ravenclaw, along with Zabini. Greengrass, Davis, and Padma Patil. Her twin, Parvati Patil, went to Slytherin, along with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter._

 _I figure all that might surprise you both. It did me._

 _Signed,_

 _Milly._

Millicent looks up from her letter, now finished, and glances around the Gryffindor common room. She's been - avoided, to put it as nicely as possible. Millicent knows it's because her family is aligned Grey with Dark leanings and some cross-breeding with other species on the side, knows it's because her cousin's mother and her uncle's father (not to be confused with her father's father) are in Azkaban for one reason or another.

Millicent is Gryffindor material, as far as she's concerned. Millicent is designed to be the material for any house, in fact - breeding, after all, is done for a reason. Millicent may not be the prettiest, sure, but she can speak multiple languages and already knows ten different ways to curse someone seven ways til' sunday, Millicent might not have the best vocabulary sometimes, but she can talk circles like the best of them.

Millicent knows her place. Millicent is simply another Bulstrode - another cog in the machine that keeps this world running.

Millicent packs her things into her bag, moves over to the couches and sits down. "Hello," She says, and Pansy looks up. This may not be the best way to blend in - sticking with 'her crowd', as Millicent is sure they'll call it - but she doesn't truly want to leave Pansy unaware that her parents are likely to tell the other girl's parents of her sorting.

Ultimately - the Bulstrodes deal in information. Nobody suspects the idiot in the corner, after all. Let alone their child.

* * *

 _Dear Nephew,_

 _We've never officially met, however your mother saw it necessary for us to talk. Ask her for her reasons; I shall not claim to know them._

 _After all, I've been removed from the world of pureblood politics since I was a teenager. It is likely you know more than I do, and I am not ashamed to admit that - frankly, it's all rather inane. However, it appears Cissy has decided that we should keep in contact._

 _She has appointed me as your advisor. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. Your cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, in in seventh year at the current time, and is in the same house as you. If you have any questions you can't wait for answers to, it would likely be best to ask her first before owl-ing me._

 _Signed,_

 _Andromeda Tonks._

* * *

The lessons after Potions turned out much better for Harry. Aside from DADa, in which he got a splitting headache and had to be excused to the hospital wing for a quick potion (which tasted awful) and following that, a few tests to see it's cause.

Madame Pomfrey couldn't figure it out, apparently, so he's slated to go back this weekend - or earlier, if the problem arises again.

Regardless, the other lessons turned out much nicer.

In Transfiguration, which they shared with the Ravenclaws, Harry found his assumptions about McGonagall to be correct. She was a no-nonsense teacher who wouldn't accept anything other than an individual's best, and any messing about in class was not to be tolerated. The first thing the Professor did was turn her desk into a pig and then back again, though sadly they were informed this would not be taught until seventh year. Harry thought that this was to give the students reason to follow transfiguration through until the end. Either that or she was simply showing off - He didn't peg the Professor to be that kind of person, however, so Harry figured the former option was more likely.

Regardless, they were set to turning matchsticks into sewing needles. Ron's notes were abysmal for reasons unknown to Harry, and Harry's weren't much better, from a lack of being able to really read the writing on the board.

"This is pointless," Ron grumbled quietly, squinting at Harry's notes. "uh = is that... what _is_ that?" He asked, gesturing to - basically an entire paragraph. Harry grimaced. He really needed to get better with quills. "Well, I couldn't quite tell what the writing was anyway," Harry muttered back, frowning at the board which was situated (in his opinion) too far back to really see. "I mean, that could say anything, really."

"Helpful," Ron grumbled, a little louder than he perhaps should have. Ron's ears burned slightly when someone glanced their way, and he lowered himself ever so slightly.

"Well, can't you read it?" Harry retorts. Ron doesn't exactly have need for glasses, after all.

Ron's ears deepen in colour. "Well, yeah," He says, defensively, then pauses. Glares at the board, for a moment, much too intensely.

"Alright," Harry says, "Well, I guess we'll just have to ask."

Ron blinked at him like he was mad. Regardless, Harry raised his hand.

"Something the matter, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall asks, and Harry nods hesitantly. "I - uh, I can't see the board."

There's a beat of silence, and then - "Oh, of course." Professor McGonagall mutters, thins her lips and Harry for a single moment feels utter surety that she's annoyed at him. Before - "I should have thought. Miss Granger, Miss Bones, please swap places with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, if you wouldn't mind."

Granger and Bones get up from their places. Harry spots Granger's minute frown before she takes his old place, and the Professor whisks them away, over to their new seats. "I'll move the board forwards, Mr Potter, I do apologise," Professor McGonagall says, genuine, and flicks her wand, causing the board to move forwards.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry says, and Ron nods awkwardly.

The Professor inclines her head, then moves back to her desk.

It wasn't too bad now. The two re-wrote their notes, quickly deciding there really wasn't a need to keep them separate if they were going to share anyway, and divided the sections between themselves. Harry finished up a little before Ron, and started working on the wand movement required. It took Ron a few more minutes, and some minor mistakes that Harry pointed out (and a few he missed), then the two started practicing properly.

By the end of the lesson, Granger was the only one to get a proper needle. Harry felt rather proud of the metallic texture his had gained, even if it still looked like wood, and Ron seemed decently pleased that the shape of his had changed properly.

After class was dismissed, next was Charms, which they had with the Gryffindors.

Like Snape, Flitwick paused at Harry's name - unlike Snape, Flitwick squeaked and fell backwards. Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and shunk slightly at all the stares, before Flitwick apologised and the lesson continued. After Charms was Lunch, and then Herbology, which was a class they shared with the Ravenclaws. Sprout seemed nice enough as a teacher goes, and the lesson went by without much preamble. After Herbology, they had History of Magic, which was the only class taught by a ghost. That sounded interesting to Harry, until Ron had told him what his brother's had told him.

"Bins doesn't really teach," Ron had said. "He lectures, and seems like he doesn't know that the students are even there. Fred and George use the time to sleep or plan, and even Percy uses it for something other than the lesson it's meant to be for; he studies, because he's Percy, but still."

So History of Magic turned out to be rather dull. Though they shared it with the Hufflepuffs, all that really happened was people sleeping and talking amongst themselves. Harry was rather glad of this.

After History of Magic, they had a few hours until tea, and so Harry and Ron wandered off to the Library. It was safer than the common room, and outside, and really anywhere else, because if anyone tried to do anything they'd most definitely get caught out by Madame Pince, the librarian. She was a rather vulture-like old woman with a pair of half-moon glasses likely used for reading, and if you so much as spoke at a normal volume anywhere in her Library you'd be kicked out without a moment's notice.

Harry and Ron weren't the biggest readers, so they went to one of the tables that had a chess board. "Might as well," Ron said, and Harry shrugged. "Alright," He nodded. "Might as well."

* * *

Susan hadn't gotten a letter at breakfast, like Hermione had proposed might happen, but she did get one at lunch. "Your aunt?" Hermione asked absently, eyes scouring the tenth page of that day's prophet. Susan nodded, and Zabini glanced over to them. Susan ignored him - he wasn't near enough to read over her shoulder, which the boy had gained a habit of doing whenever she was sitting in the common room - and read her letter. "You keep in touch with your aunt, then?" Fletchly asked, and Susan paused. "Justin." Hermione snapped. "Honestly. Mind yourself." Finch-Fletchly shrunk slightly, sheepish, and Susan waved a hand. "It's alright, Hermione." She said. Then, to Fletchly; "I live with her."

Fletchly shrunk a little more. "Oh," He said quietly, then after a moment went back to eating his sandwitch.

"Well?" Hermione hissed, and Fletchly winced. "Sorry," He muttered, and Susan shrugged. "It's fine, really. How were you to know?" Hermione pursed her lips but didn't say anything further, which Susan was glad for. Susan figured her to be a nice enough girl, but as she's said before - Hermione can be a bit... intense, sometimes.

"Not everybody's read the entire backlog of prophets, Granger," MacDougal said, "If I'd've known, I wouldn't have said anything."

Hermione scowled at him, took a bite of her salad, and went back to reading.

Susan looked back down at her letter.

 _Susan,_

 _While I'm not surprised by your sorting - in fact, I'm quite proud; you were always rather clever - I am surprised by quite a few of the rest._

 _Keep an eye on the Malfoy boy, and the Parkinson girl. Perhaps they'll be better than their parents._

 _your Aunt,_

 _Amelia Bones._

Susan sighed, folded up her letter and pocketed it.

"Well?" Hermione asked. "About what I expected," Susan replied, and started eating her lunch.

* * *

Snape entered the Headmaster's office before Dumbledore could call him in, and ignored the cries of 'how rude' and variatons of from the portraits. "The boy is - what I expected, but no worse than his Father." Snape hissed out from between gritted teeth, and Dumbledore smiled pleasantly at him. "That's good news," Dumbledore said, "I do however think it's best if Harry stay's with the Dursleys for only two weeks this summer - that's more than long enough for the wards to solidify - and go somewhere else. He seems to have befriended the Weasley boy, yes?"

"Yes," Snape replied, stiffly. A Weasley. And a Potter. In _his house._

The world's gone mad. He's taken a point from Slytherin, for merlin's sake!

"Perhaps," Dumbledore added, "You may wish to reevlauate Mr. Potter. After all, James was the least likely child I've ever met to be considered for Slytherin."

Snape scowled. Dumbledore twinkled his eyes at him. "No matter," Dumbledore added. "I shall ask Molly if she won't mind giving her son the idea to invite Harry over for most of the summer."

Snape nodded, and swiftly removed himself from the office and the old man's presence.

Gah. He needs another drink.

* * *

Narcissa paused when she heard a crash from her husband's office. Calmly, she walked over to the door, and knocked before entering. "Dear?" She asked, taking in the scene before her.

Ah. "Dobby," She demanded, and the house elf appeared before her. "Yes Mistress Malfoy?" "Clean up the glass." The elf went and did so before disappearing with a crack, and Naricssa winced. She'd need to remind the creature to keep the noise down.

"Bloody elf," Lucius snapped, before dropping most inelegantly into his desk chair. "My son is a _hufflepuff."_

Ah. So Draco must have told him, then. "Yes," Naricssa affirmed. "Indeed."

Lucius scowled at the wall. "A _Hufflepuff."_

Naricssa's immediate reaction had been much the same, however... "I could have been a Hufflepuff," Narcissa said.

Lucius stared at her.

... Perhaps it had not been the best time, granted, but Naricssa had to make her point. "Lucius, dear, think about it this way - people will be far more likely to believe we aren't dark any longer if our son isn't a Slytherin. For our reputation, Hufflepuff is likely the best house he could have gone to."

Lucius seemed to consider this. "If that is what it takes," He decided, tone reluctant. "Send him a letter," Narcissa advised. "He'll worry himself sick that you hate him."

Lucius scoffed, but got out his quill and ink anyway. "The Parkinson girl is a Gryffindor," Lucius added. "They've apologised and terminated the marriage contract. Perhaps we should go with Greengrass?"

"The Daphnee girl? They don't get along very well."

"I was rather thinking of Astoria," Her husband added. "Despite her curse, it could go decently well."

"They'll have to meet," Naricssa reminded him. "Perhaps once she's thirteen, at least?"

Lucius nodded. It was decided, then. Narcissa took her leave.

Zabini would rather like to known that Parkinson's daughter was a Gryffindor. It would be interesting conversation, regardless.

* * *

After tea, Harry and Ron decided to do a bit of exploring. Of course, this unfortunately got them lost.

"Where do you think we are?" Ron asked. It must have been rhetorical, because Harry has as much of a clue as Ron does. Harry told him this. "Well," Ron shrugged, "Worth a shot, yeah?"

Harry snorted. The two found their way to the grand staircase and came across another door. It was locked, and Harry had the distinct feeling that they shouldn't be there.

"C'mon," Harry sighed, "Might as well go to the common room." Ron grumbed but agreed all the same, and the two went down three flights of stairs, entered the entrance chamber and went down to the dungeons.

Hopefully, they'd be left alone - but Harry couldn't help the paranoia caused by Fawley's words.

* * *

Pansy was grateful that Millicent had thought to warn her, but at the same time was angry that she had told her parents of Pansy's sorting in the first place.

Pansy clutched the letter she'd gotten at breakfast that day. Turpin, the mudblood, had shown interest, but a quick jibe at her shoddily chopped hair and five pimples across the right brow stopped her from asking any unwanted questions.

Pansy hadn't opened it yet. It was nighttime, a few hours after tea, and by now Pansy would have finished up her homework and started getting ready for bed - but here she was, sitting in the dark on top of her duvet, deliberating on whether or not she should open the letter.

It's thin, the envelope. That scares Pansy perhaps more than a thick wad would have, because a thick wad would have contained instructions on how to deal with this. Thin could mean anything. The seal is on the front - the official one, and her full name is on the back. Formal. Pansy doesn't want to open it. But she's Gryffindor now - she must.

Pansy turns the envelope over, hands shaking, and breaks the seal.

 _Dear Pansy,_

Pansy paused. Usually, they put Darling Daughter. Pansy took a deep breath, and continued reading.

 _We are uncertain of how you managed it, but despite everything you've been taught and how you were raised... you are a Gryffindor._

 _Perhaps we should have expected it. After all, you were never one for subtlety._

 _Regardless - we shall not disown you. That would reflect rather badly on us, and we are wishing to keep our heads down as far as the DMLE is concerned until our Lord returns, or a new one takes his place._

 _A Gryffindor child is the perfect cover. However, if he does come back, or another does take his place - you must understand yours, Pansy._

 _This is all, however, pure speculation. For now - be yourself. The girl we raised, the daughter we adore. Despite your new house._

 _Additionally - ignore their brainwashing. You are a pureblood, Pansy. Always remember that, and remember the status you hold. In order to avoid being harmed, however, we advise to avoid calling mudbloods - well, mudbloods. Saftey first, dear._

 _Signed your loving parents,_

 _Lord and Lady Parkinson._

 _Addendum: Never try to keep anything from us again. There are multiple children in Hogwarts who are the eyes and ears of our society. It does not reflect well on us if they know before we do._

Pansy let out a shaky breath. _Okay._ She can work with this.

* * *

 ** _Notes: Hope you enjoyed :D_**

 ** _Notes: Before_i_sleep is an awesome commenter over on AO3,_** _ **and an awesome writer, go read their stuffs. Also; dude, I hope you liked it? Lmao.**_


	5. It's Hard To Change, Though It's Needed

Notes:

please don't yell at me.  
This chapter takes a deeper look into the prejudice of the wizarding world and thus is a lot heavier than the story has previously been. Fair warning. Also, understand that the kids are simply regurgitating their parents'/guardians' views - if they sound a lot like thoughts from an older person, they are. These are thoughts and words and phrases drilled into these kids from a young age. Hogwarts I feel is great, because it takes these kids away from that and lets them - forces them, really - to make their own decisions. But that takes time, of course, so expect a lot of people in this chapter to have quite awful views. Sorry.

Also, there's some stuff about WW II and the magical involvement; when you see Moon if you don't wanna read about that, skip.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

* * *

Albert wasn't exactly proud of his heritage. A squib for a mother and a half-blood for a father; to Albert, this wasn't something to think highly of.

In the original timeline, Albert Runcorn would grow up to be a Ministry of Magic employee during the administration of Pius Thicknesse. His chief function would be as an intimidator and blackmailer of alleged Muggle-borns, and he would be the one to uncover Dirk Cresswell's falsified family tree while in this capacity.

Sometimes, while change is made, nothing comes of it. Indeed - Runcorn, in this world, is a Ravenclaw. All the same, because blood purity isn't something that only Slytherin's house perpetuates, Runcorn would still grow up to be a bigot. Except this time around, he'd be a bigot who believed he had logical reasoning for his beliefs; it would be even harder to change his mind.

Sometimes, change is not for the good. Sometimes, change doesn't stop bad things from happening - sometimes, change makes no difference at all.

Sometimes, though, It does.

* * *

Draco wasn't sure what to think about being a Hufflepuff, anymore. According to his father, being a Hufflepuff is good cover. According to his - ugh - cousin, he should be proud. According to his aunt, he should accept it, and according to his mother, she could have been one.

Draco has a choice. Draco has the choice of agreeing with his father; simply using his house as a cover. Or, on the other hand - he could agree with his mother, his aunt, his cousin.

Draco, at eleven, was not a person that made his own decisions. At eleven, Draco Malfoy was as much a sheep as the rest of society, and it would only be time and a war that would change this. It would not, however, change it for the better.

At least - in the original timeline.

Draco approached his cousin - far more hesitant than he would ever admit and his father would like - and didn't know what to say. What to ask, what to do, how to gain her favour.

"Little cousin," Tonks grinned, a terrible excuse for a greeting, and Draco's nose wrinkled in distaste. "... Aunt Andromeda told me to talk to you." Draco returned, not much better. She was a half-blood. Draco heard his father's words in his head, and it wasn't willpower that made him stay - it was a lack thereof.

His mother wanted this, and if there was one person Draco valued over his father, it was his mother.

"Did she now?" Tonks asked, amused, and then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" She muttered to herself. "Helping one kid with a rum spell, helping out my cousin with being a Hufflepuff. Merlin, this year is more interesting than I'd expected."

Draco figured that wasn't addressed to him - to anyone other than Nymphadora herself. So he didn't respond, just simply waited.

Today, Tonks' hair was a vivid yellow. Perhaps it was out of a sense of house pride, who knows - Draco certainly didn't.

"So first things first, we've got to be serious for a second, okay?" Tonks said, and her hair changed to a deeper brown, her eyebrows lowered and her lips thinned. "Your perspective on muggles. Tell me it."

Draco swallowed. This was why he wasn't certain about Hufflepuff - because not a single person in his new house believed what he did. Here, his beliefs were the minority - they were the ones that were scorned.

... it wasn't a nice feeling.

"... Father always says that they're less than us." Draco offers. "And mother prefers that we don't mix with them." Draco knew to make it seem less like he held those beliefs himself; knew it was best to say that was what his parents say, not what his brain thinks.

It was safer that way.

Tonks' eyes darkened further, her lips thinned - this time, more by her own distaste than her metamorphmagus abilities. "I see." She said, simply - short, and cool, and Draco felt... unsettled. With the people his parents deemed fit for conversation, their reactions were always to agree.

(This is the issue with being surrounded by yes men. You never grow as a person. Your ideology is never challenged.

Change is never brought about.)

"What about you? What do you think?" Tonks asked.

"... that mudbloods shouldn't be allowed in our world," Draco said, after a pause. "That the money given to them is a drain on our society, that muggles shouldn't be allowed to raise wizarding children." Draco hesitated, for a second, then -

"That we should study them more." He offered. "We hardly know anything about them. What if they have something that could wipe us all out without us knowing?"

You see, Draco Malfoy has his parents views - but he has his own, too. And his are brought about more by fear than anything else. That's what a phobia is; an irrational fear.

The way the pureblood society views muggles is born from centuries of a lack of study and contact. Xenophobia - the fear of the unknown. To diminish this, they put them down and they outright attack them, because generally, people - and these supremacists are people, it would be dangerous not to consider them such - react to fear in drastic ways.

Pureblood society is an echo chamber of extremist ideas. It's really no wonder Voldemort came to power - there are seven billion muggles, give or take a few Muggle-borns. In comparison, there are so few magical beings it's not even funny.

What they believe is not okay - I'm not saying that. All I'm saying is, in the grand scheme of things, these people - they are the minority. Not just in the world, but in their own society, too.

That, of course, isn't to say they don't have the power in this situation; they do. They have money, they have sway, they have the media and the government under their thumb. It's just something to think about - that such a relatively small group can gain all the traction the purists have, simply due to ignorance and apathy on behalf of the general populace.

Tonks looked angry, for a split second - then she calmed down, her hair changed from black to a more muted yellow.

"Let's talk about that," Tonks said.

Draco winced mentally, but in reality, lifted his chin and sneered. Because children are stubborn - and children never want to admit the adults they look up to are wrong.

* * *

"There is something deeply disturbing about a Nott being a Hufflepuff."

"I could say the same about a Greengrass," Nott replied, sneeringly. Daphne raised a perfect eyebrow in his direction. "Not quite," She disagreed. "We're a grey family, Nott. Having Hufflepuffs isn't unheard of."

Nott's sneer deepened. "Sure," He snarked. "Because you're such a warm person."

Daphne smirked. "The irony appears to be lost on you, there..." She mused.

"What do you want?" Theodore snapped, looked up from his book properly. "I'm busy."

"Such a wonderful comeback," Daphne sighed, as she slid gracefully onto the bench across from him. They were in the library, near the restricted section. Theodore had come here to study, not to be talked to by - anyone. Let alone this girl.

"One would think your father wasn't in Ravenclaw," Daphne continued. "How did he take the news, by the way? I'm sure he was thrilled," She added, tone dry.

Of course, Theodore should have known she'd ask that.

"Spying for Bulstrode are you now?" Theodore asked, snide. Daphne frowned at him, gently. "Don't be stupid," She dismissed. "I was simply curious."

Theodore pursed his lips and frowned at her. "Why don't you go hang out with your half-blood friend, huh?" Theodore sneered. "Stop bothering me with your inane chatter."

"Well that was pretentious," Daphne huffed. "And Tracey's father was a squib, I'll have you know."

"And?" Theodore sneered. "He didn't have magic. Ergo, she's a half-blood."

Daphne rolled her eyes. Elegantly - incredibly ladylike. Greengrass women (and, to be fairly honest, a lot of the men too; in the sense that they aren't confrontational or abrasive in the traditional pureblood way) are like that, you see.

"You're a pretentious prat, you know that, cousin?" Daphne asked rhetorically. "Of course she's a half-blood, I wasn't denying that. It's simple fact. I was simply pointing out that her blood is, quote-unquote 'cleaner' than your own."

Nott stiffened.

"Daphne," He hissed - addressed her by her name. "Not here."

"Come off it, Theodore," Daphne scoffed. In a very ladylike way, somehow. "I'm a half-blood, technically, since my father was muggle-born. You're even more of one since your mother was muggle."

"Shut up, Daphne." Theodore spat out through gritted teeth. They were cousin's through their mutual muggle sides, which was highly unusual in the elite circles, and Theodore wanted nothing to do with her because of it.

"All I'm saying, Theodore," Daphne continued, ignoring his request, "Is that you need to wake up, for Morgana's sake. Keeping to yourself and the purist beliefs in Hufflepuff is suicide, quite frankly." Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. "Either grow up or stagnate, but if you chose the latter know that your life won't be a happy one. I'm just trying to help, here, okay?"

"Help someone else. I hear Malfoy's been fraternizing." Nott sneered. "Maybe I will." Daphne challenged. "Maybe I will. Maybe I'll leave you all alone to suffer and stagnate and maybe, just maybe, you'll figure out all of what I'm telling you on your own. Or you won't, and one day you'll go missing, and nobody will care because you never let anyone care. 'Just like your father' isn't a good thing, Nott, not with your dad."

And with that, Daphne rose from the table, swirled around and disappeared around the corner. After a minute, Nott heard the door close, and he relaxed ever-so-slightly.

He really needed to send his father that letter. Just - not yet.

* * *

"Why do you hate me so much?"

Pansy frowned to herself, then turned around. It was that mudblood again - Lisa Turpin.

"Because you're - you." Pansy sneered. Remembered her parents' advice; avoid calling mudbloods - well, mudbloods.

"That's not a good enough answer," Turpin responded, righteous. "You can't just hate me because I'm me when you don't even know me."

Pansy scowled. "Fine, you want to know? You're ignorant of the majority of my world, you don't take pride in your appearance and you let people think you're stupid."

"I'm ignorant?" Lisa asked - perhaps she asked. Pansy heard it as a question. "Me? That's a laugh." Turpin frowned at her. "I looked up what a mudblood was, you know. It's not in any dictionary or anything - mainly because I haven't found a single dictionary, which, what - but it is slang. So a second year told me what it meant, and that's racist, you know."

Pansy raised an eyebrow at her. "Racist?" She asked, completely unaware of whatever that meant.

Turpin blinked at her - Pansy scowled. See, this is what she'd meant about the girl looking stupid. "You don't - oh my god. You have no idea, do you?"

Pansy looked at the other girl as if she was a particularly strange puzzle. "No..." She said, slowly.

"And I'm the ignorant one," Turpin scoffed. "Yikes."

The other girl sighed. "Maybe it's not technically racist because muggle-born and half-blood and pureblood aren't races, exactly, but it's pretty freaking close," She allowed, "And it's - horribly mean."

Pansy huffed out a laugh. "Mean?" She asked, incredulous. "Mean? It's fact. You aren't purely a witch. You aren't from my society."

"You're not human, then," Turpin snapped. "Because you're not a muggle. Which, by the way, sounds like an offensive word, too." She added. "But I haven't found another one."

Pansy scowled at her, offended. "Of course I'm human." She scoffed. "We're just better. There's no question about that - they can't do magic."

"Can you blow up an entire country with one weapon?" Turpin challenged. "Can you guys destroy the whole world with the press of a button?"

Pansy frowned at her, genuinely bewildered and hating it. "No," She rolled her eyes. "No one can. It's the world, for Merlin's sake."

Turpin laughed. Properly, harshly. Then - "Tell that to the muggles, then. Let them laugh in your face - because they would. Mass Assured Destruction; a muggle agreement between countries. If one set of nukes, the rest of the world would also set off their nukes, meaning that though one country was trying to get rid of one country, they'd end up getting rid of all of them. Complete and utter destruction."

She seemed serious enough. Pansy... didn't know what to think, exactly. If this was the case, though... she didn't think much higher of muggles knowing this. To be fairly honest - it would make her feel worse about them.

"And that's supposed to make me like them?" Pansy sneered.

"No," Turpin sneered in return. "It's supposed to let you know how stupid and ignorant you yourself are. I'm the ignorant one?" Turpin grinned. "That's hilarious."

"We set off your world war." The two girls turned their attention to another girl; this one on the couch. "I'm not proud of that," She added. "But the magical world was fighting alongside your world war two, and the bad guys from our world were aiding the Germans. A lot of people believe that Grindelwald was the mastermind behind all of it. That he was the villain pulling the strings and the muggle leader was simply a puppet. That magicals got annoyed with muggles having all the power in the war and it was a magical person that killed the mundane's leader."

"You mean Hitler?" Turpin asked, bewildered.

"Yes, that was his name, wasn't it?" the girl nodded to herself. "Anyway - the point is that neither world is wholly good and that, Turpin - you're right. Parkinson's a racist; there's no point talking with her. She'll go the same way her uncle did - straight into Azkaban where she belongs."

Pansy stiffened - for a moment, utterly terrified. Then - "Why, you-" Pansy snapped, stepped forward. Azkaban was the worst place in their world - if you weren't mad before you went, you would be after. The wizarding world didn't believe in rehabilitation. No matter the crime committed, you'd forever be marked by your time in Azkaban. Simple shoplifting because you can't afford food to outright murder - all crime was the same, and all criminals were to be treated alike.

Azkaban was a death sentence. People died there - from refusing to eat and the guards not caring, from the conditions; hypothermia, for example, was a common killer - and from the Dementors, who would sometimes administer the kiss to those that weren't set for it. Even the guards, occasionally, were known for brutality high enough that a fair few inmates wound up dead.

Nobody cared, of course. After all - they're all criminals in there. Considering magic... well. How would any arrests be unwarranted?

"Moon..." Lisa said, surprised.

"What?" Lily looked up and over to the mudblood. "She's as inbred as the rest of them. Same thoughts running around in her head as the murderers in her family. Being a Gryff doesn't change that one bit. She's evil. And evil people go to Azkaban, where they belong."

Lisa looked horrified, as she looked between the two purebloods. She stepped back. "You're both crazy," She decided. "People can change, Moon - and genocide is literally never the answer!" Turpin appeared to be addressing the both of them with that - Pansy realized that was what Moon had been saying. Pansy knew that was what her parents want and so therefore what she wants even if she hadn't said it - but she'd never thought -

"Extremists are generally the same, Lisa," Urquhart said. He'd appeared from the stairs and made a beeline for the three girls - Pansy hadn't realized how loud they'd gotten. "Opposite views with methods that resemble each other to a scary degree."

"But I didn't think..." Lisa trailed off. "I'd figured maybe a world with magic would be better than a world without, not worse."

Urquhart grimaced. "Give them time," He advised as if Pansy and Moon weren't right there. "If you want them to change... give them time."

Lisa looked saddened - like she pitied both Pansy and Moon, which was ridiculous. Pansy doesn't need pity.

Pansy scoffed, loudly - she wasn't sure what to do, exactly. Wasn't sure what to think.

She didn't want to think like someone who wanted her family dead just because they were the way they are - Pansy couldn't quite see the irony in that just yet.

"What?" Urquhart frowned at her. Pansy didn't know - she hesitated. Didn't reply. "Never mind," She muttered, walked past the two - barged past - and nearly ran upstairs.

All her life, Pansy had been told exactly what to think and what to feel - this has been an upheaval. People can change, but they can't change overnight. It takes time... time some people won't want to give them.

(Lily Moon's parents are just as bad as Pansy's, just in a different way.)

* * *

Notes:

The Draco section took forever. You can probably tell why. So did the Pansy/Lisa/Lily section. Yikes.

Obviously, what the pureblood elitists believe is absolutely horrible and completely unacceptable. I just wanted to point something out. It's not devil's advocate because I'm most definitely not trying to justify anything here, but it is trying to provoke conversation. Same with Moon; genocide is obviously never. the. answer.  
So yes. Sorry? I felt it was necessary since I've accidentally made a lot of the pov characters be HP's universe's super racist people. It's very uncomfortable to write, but if I'm going to grow them as characters, it can't be ignored.


	6. It's Time For All Hallow's Eve

Notes:

Plotttttt~~~

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

* * *

The rest of September went past without much fanfare. Malfoy lost Hufflepuff quite a few points and gained weekly detentions for a month to be overseen by Professor Sprout when available and Professor Babbling when not.

Babbling was the muggle studies professor, Harry had been told by one of the older years (Fawley, he thinks, though he'd been tired when it happened so it might have been a friend or sibling of her's) which is why he found that so amusing to think about.

Basically, Patil had said, gleefully - "He's being lectured by a pureblood about how muggleborns and muggles are people too, you know as if that wasn't obvious."

Ron had later explained that she was gleeful because, as it turns out, most purebloods aren't like the Weasleys. "Honestly," He'd added, ears red, "The majority don't care and the rest are fanatical. I mean, we aren't even technically classed as purebloods."

Harry had looked at him, bewildered, and Ron had gone even redder and muttered something about wizarding genealogy and also something about how families that fraternize 'too much' with muggles or muggleborns and, to an extent, half-bloods, are struck from ever becoming a part of the sacred twenty-eight, which his mother had mentioned a few times during her rants at the dinner table when she'd read something particularly despicable in Witch Weekly or The Daily Prophet.

"Basically, it's the record of pureblooded families." Ron had told him. "The Potters were on there, I think, but you're like us Weasleys now, mate. Considered too common, I guess, or some other -" And here Ron lowered his voice (as they were in the common room), but that didn't stop the older year on the couch next to Ron (Harry was on the armchair opposite) from lightly smacking the back of his head.

"Language," He'd said, bored in tone, before carrying on with his book.

Ron rolled his eyes and got up. Harry followed him down the corridor to the dorm.

It turned out some Slytherin a while back had expanded the area down here as an experiment - with runes and charms and transfiguration - and so it was much larger than it perhaps should be. That wasn't to say it was nice; some hallways got really, really low the further along you went, and some corners went straight to dead-ends, and a lot of the area was covered in dust from a lack of foot-traffic. Still, despite that, it was useful. They'd found that the room they'd been assigned was down the first corridor, through a wall you either needed a password for or, as Harry had found out, asking it nicely (Ron had tried and it hadn't worked - Harry wasn't sure what that was about. Of course, Ron hadn't been there when Harry had done it, so maybe the wall was picky?) - and then three steps forward, and, while looking ahead, two steps right. It was a faulty version of the spell on platform nine and three quarters and some of the other stations, the older year (not Gemma, so Harry figured they'd put them there out of spite) had said.

"You'll walk straight into the wall if you go face-first," He'd smirked, shaking his head. "So have fun with that."

Of course, his snide tone had pretty much proven to Harry that he didn't mean well - but even people who don't mean well can do good. The convoluted nature of the journey meant that they went undisturbed pretty much all the time, which was nice, and Gemma had grinned when she'd found out.

"Warrington's an idiot," She'd said. "Bless his family. Nobody ever goes down there because of how frustrating it can get, so you should be good."

Harry and Ron had found this to be the case - though they had only been here a short time, Harry felt it had been long enough for someone to grow cocky or reckless enough to try and attack them in the dorms or common room.

So - the dorm. Once you're past the sidestep wall, you have to go through one last door. This one doesn't require a password or anything - it's just a door with your names and year stamped onto the front. Most get a nice plaque, but... well.

Back when they'd first managed to get in, Harry had blinked at it and Ron had sighed.

You see, someone had the bright idea of taking down the plaque that was there, ready to be spelled, and replaced it with some old paper, worn and torn, with their names hastily scribbled on the front, along with their year. And copius spelling mistakes.

Ron had snorted. Harry took the thing down, it coming off the wall with a weak pop.

"Sticking charm," Ron had surmised. A bad one, Harry figured. He'd dropped the paper and kicked it into the corner.

Now, of course, Harry had taken the initiative to replace it. It was only new parchment with his pretty terrible chicken scrawl hand-writing and a bit of sellotape - "Spellotape, mate," Ron had corrected, absently. Harry had laughed. - but it did the job, he'd figured.

The room was better than his cupboard - in that it was much bigger. The room was better than his new room - in that there weren't any dangerous broken objects just lying around.

The beds had been full of dust, as had everything else. Or, at least - that's what it had looked like. The second time they'd gone in, the dust had gone for the most part - it stuck stubbornly to certain surfaces and the corners of things, but it wasn't on any vertical axis any longer. Still, Harry had been rather wary, but he was used to the itchy sheets and water damage by now.

Harry flopped onto his bed and looked up at the ceiling. The ceiling wasn't anything you'd expect of such a terrible room (they didn't even have adjoining showers like the rest of the dorms did, they had to go further down the corridor and stoop slightly to get into a strangely high-ceilinged slightly dirty bathroom) because it was see-through.

You see, the dungeons - or, at least, some of the dungeons - were below the Lake. The common room was part of that section of the dungeons, in that it was in the side of the lake and had a window that looked out into the murky depths. This room was lower down (there was a ladder halfway down the first corridor that wasn't mentioned earlier), practically in the lake bed. So yes; the ceiling looked up into the murky depths. Sunlight did get this low down, but it was very filtered. As that was the only light, Harry was thinking about buying a lamp of some kind.

"The Sacred Twenty-eight, from what mum says, are all like the Malfoys or are 'grey'," Ron tells him, and Harry can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"Neutral?" Harry guessed.

"Yeah," Ron said, sighed. "You figure out if that drawer was dangerous or not yet?"

There was a drawer in the dresser that they couldn't open, not even with Alohamora, which Harry had learned before he remembered that he couldn't use magic outside of school.

(He'd figured that the Dursleys wouldn't want him doing his magic work during the summer... he'd needed a way to get it back if they stole it from him.)

"Nope," Harry said. "I asked Fawley, and she said she'd see if anyone who owes her a favour knew anything."

"That'd probably mean you owe her one," Ron pointed out.

Harry shrugged. "What can we do?" He asked, rhetorically. "We're first years. What if it really is dangerous?"

Ron grimaced. Harry dropped his head back onto the mattress. There were no pillows.

"Yeah," Ron said. Harry could still hear the grimace in his voice.

What if?

* * *

October came and went, and many things happened in the wizarding world during that time - not drastic things, not huge things, not news-worthy things. The little things. The things that can make all the difference.

Nott mailed his father. Nott Sr.

Hello Father,

I felt it was best I tell you my sorting first before we get onto that of the other students. I know this is late, and I apologise; I've simply been trying to find the right words.

As it is - I am unusually ineloquent.

I'm a Hufflepuff. There's no real way I can soften that, and I'm sorry, father. I know you were hoping Slytherin, perhaps Ravenclaw; but at least (unlike Bulstrode) I'm no Gryff.

You see... these months have been strange, to say the least. The light are worrying over the Boy-Who-Lived and that Weasley kid, the dark are scratching their heads about their children's sorting(s) and some are even disowning them. I hear the Lord and Lady Greengrass are trying for another child, though you didn't hear that from me. Nor did you hear that the Parkinsons terminated the marriage contract (Draco sure does love to run his mouth) and you did hear that from me because if that gets the Malfoys, it will only show how badly they did with Draco.

Regardless - Bulstrode, as stated before, is a Gryff. Though she always was a blank canvas, so perhaps that was intended. Certainly, the opposite for Parkinson and Daphnee, a Gryff and a Puff respectively. Most of our kind went into completely the wrong houses, although Zabini did well for himself with Ravenclaw... and Patil - the older twin, I think - went into Slytherin. Surprising, given their usual tendencies.

I think that's all I need to tell you. See you at Yule, father.

* * *

That, of course, wasn't the only thing to happen.

* * *

The table was packed - as was any of Lady Zabini's little get togethers. After all, if you weren't here, that was gossip, and you were free to be spoken of. For the people gatherered here... that wasn't a good thing.

They do a lot that is woth gossiping about, after all. Affairs, murder, disowning children, mind games and political games and getting drunk are common themes of these parties.

I'm not sure you could call them parties. Social gatherings, perhaps. The sites of deadly battles.

(One too many husbands or wives of various individuals have died here for that not to be a coincidence. Still, they come, because if they don't - that's kind of a death, too. Social Suicide, as it's called, though that's far too crass for this sort of people. Far too blunt a statement, far too forward and not careful enough to get past the sharp ears of people who have done this for years.)

(Also - Suicide is a taboo topic, at this gathering. After all, that was the claimed cause of death for one too many of this woman's lovers (for it to be anything other than a lie)).

Narcissa raised her glass to her lips, took a smooth, slight sip, pretended to swallow and carefully, in a way obviously practised and very well concealed, let it back out into the cup. She couldn't do this every time, of course; the drink needed to appear to go down over the course of the night, but there was a certain speed that was acceptable, and though Narcissa dearly wished for a proper drink... she must simply do with the taste of it on her tongue, and not the burn down her throat.

"How is dear Draco, Narcissa?" Lady Greengrass asked of her. Narcissa didn't let her annoyance show; she smiled, demure. "Quite well. He understands, of course, that this will make things slightly more difficult. However, Draco is doing very well. He's resisting their brainwashing quite admirably."

He is not, actually, resisting very well at all, from what Narcissa can read from the letters he sends. He's confused, her child, and rightly so - especially since some of this conflict of thought is coming from the fact that his teacher, either Sprout or Babbling, is technically a pureblood, in that both her parents were magical in nature and raised in their world.

"That's wonderful," Greengrass simpers and Narcissa allows herself a small smile. Greengrass was always fucking dumb, but Narcissa had thought better of her until tonight.

The woman was incapable of reading between the lines. The shift of Narcissa's arm, the fact that her fingers were pressed so firmly to the glass that they were that strange off-yellow-ish colour... Narcissa didn't know how the woman couldn't see her tells.

Lies, all lies. All of this is lies.

"He is a good son. He'll make a splendid Lord when he's older," Narcissa said, and Greengrass nodded, a little too much, a little too genuine.

My-oh-my. Now, this is why they shouldn't let blood traitors into the circle.

Narcissa took another slow and simple sip, smooth and graceful, and this time actually drank it. She'd need it, to deal with this waste of air.

To think how many pureblood children could be here instead! Narcissa has always wanted more children, but of course, Lucius was against it. The children would fight about being heirs, one might murder another - it would be a mess, Narcissa knew, but she deeply wanted it regardless. Still - Lucius is her love. Despite what other women and men do, Narcissa wouldn't betray that.

"Lady Greengrass, Lady Malfoy," Someone greeted. Oh, it was him.

"Mr. Holloway," Greengrass said, far too cheerfully. Narcissa sent a glance in her direction, and she wilted like a flower in fast-forward.

Utterly spineless. Narcissa took another drink.

Narcissa took in Zabini's new conquest. Younger than the witch - of course he was. Zabini was probably looking to have another child; she'd rather wanted a Slytherin, and now that she didn't have one she'd all but given up on him. Narcissa had never thought her a good fit for a mother; this is one of the times when Narcissa would have liked her chosen toy live, aside from how mad it would have made her. The boy - Blaise, Narcissa thought with distaste; what a horrible name - didn't deserve the lack of his mother's love. Still, Zabini needed a daughter regardless. A son would do if she didn't have any girls, but the money always went to the daughters. That was the way the Zabinis did things way back when, wherever they came from, and it is how Zabini does it now.

Narcissa rather, at the same time as wanting her to avoid having any more children, had thought it time for her to have another one a long time ago.

"Adreanna wishes to speak with you," He says, frowning. "Specifically Lady Greengrass; she asked that the Lady Malfoy not accompany her."

Narcissa nodded, mentally flaring her nostrils. How could Zabini choose a man so ill-suited? He can't even string a proper sentence!

"Of course," She demurred. "I shall entertain myself elsewhere."

And with that, Narcissa stood to leave. She was bored, and tired, and a little too sober to be dealing with this party, and nothing has happened yet. Narcissa decided then and there to declare herself leaving 'fashionably early' and see what fun can be made of that.

There's... rather little to do aside from stir up controversy. To be truthful, Narcissa is bored. A little upheaval could be entertaining, so long as they didn't up and let it go in any direction. A few years to show how badly the muggle lovers would run things, and then a nice, peaceful revolution. Yes, Narcissa can see it now.

Perhaps her son could spearhead, she mused to herself. After all - who would expect the Hufflepuff? Narcissa laughed at that thought, and in turn rather proved her own point.

* * *

The class was charms. The day was Halloween. The time was morning. We know how this goes, or we think we do. To be honest, it is much the same. Except - a boy tries to help, but is bossy. A girl is offended and challenges him - he does it easily. She insults him to his face; his family, his awkward hair, his gait, his height, his lack of ability in the social department, his older siblings, his cousin, his muggle-ness.

He says something simple.

"I was only trying to help," He points out. "It's no wonder you don't have any friends."

She didn't want friends, she told him. "Friends make you weak," She snapped.

"I guess that's what makes you a Gryffindor, then," He said. "Your fear of being weak."

She froze and didn't speak - not for the rest of the lesson. He didn't much care; he went back to work, and that was that. After class, she went to lunch. Sat at the table and poked at her food, but didn't eat. Frowned, but didn't talk - not even to insult the girl across, who frowned at her in confusion.

"What's up with you?" The girl asked.

"Never you mind." She snapped in response - stabbed her food with her fork.

"Fine." The girl said. "Whatever."

The first girl - the girl from class - didn't show up to any further classes. "I'm - is it weird that I'm worried? I mean... she's awful."

"It just means you're kind." Her friend says. They only really started speaking after the other night - but even that can lead to a long-term friendship. You only need the right mindset.

"I just - you know what?" She said, standing. "I'm going to look for her."

"Alright," He said. "Don't miss the feast."

"Wasn't planning on it," She said. She would, of course - but she wasn't to know that.

* * *

"Did you hear?" Patil said to them. Her friend Mandy was back at the hospital, so she'd taken to talking to them about gossip and the like.

"No," Ron said. "What?"

"Turpin and Parkinson haven't been seen since the last lesson. Parkinson since this morning."

Harry and Ron shared a glance. "Okay?" Harry asked. He didn't know either of them, so he didn't really get what she was saying.

Patil shrugged, took a bite of her pie. "Thought I'd tell you." She said.

"Alright," Ron frowned. "Sure," Harry said.

Neither of them really cared all that much for gossip. Harry had grown up around Aunt Petunia and her afternoon tea; he didn't want to be anything like her or her 'friends', especially not in that regard.

It's the middle of dinner when it happens.

"TROLL!" Professor Quirrel had cried out. Harry hadn't been to one of his lessons over the past week - the headaches were getting worse; last time, Ron had noticed that his scar was bleeding.

"That can't be good," He'd said, and dragged Harry off to the Hospital Wing.

"Troll in the dungeons!" Quirrel cried out. "Thought you ought to know."

And then promptly fainted.

Once he'd hit the floor, the room erupted into chaos. Harry was still bewildered since they hadn't covered Trolls yet, and Ron hastily explained to him the issue.

"They've really thick skin," Ron said. "And they're really thick. So they're hard to beat with magic and they're really, really stupid, which is not good. At all."

"How did you know that?" Harry asked. "We haven't covered it yet."

Ron's ears burned. "Common knowledge," He muttered. "Safety, you know. Parents tell it to their kids - Fred tried to scare me with saying we'd have to fight one to enter school, remember?"

Harry shrugged, nodded. Yeah, he remembered.

Dumbledore called for silence, and ordered everyone to their common rooms.

"Well that's bullshit," Ron said. "Let's go."

Patil grabbed Ron's arm. "Can I come?" She hissed. "Mandy's still in the hospital wing, and I'm pretty sure the two Gryffs are still stuck somewhere!"

Harry dithered for a moment, unsure. "Yeah," He said. "Yeah, we'll drop you off there."

Harry looked to Ron, who nodded. They'd go look for the Gryffindors who had no idea about this - perhaps something would come of it, perhaps not, but they should be safe. After all, the Troll is in the Dungeons. That's the opposite direction to where they're going.

* * *

It was not in the Dungeons.

"Fuck," Ron said in surprise. Patil nodded rapidly and pulled the two of them back around the corner.

"There was a key in the lock," Harry whispered. "We could?-"

"That's the girl's loo," Patil muttered, "Bad idea. I think I know where they are," She added, wincing, as screams could be heard.

"...ugh..." Ron sighed, looked to Harry.

"Yes." Harry said, turned around, and walked pointedly towards the bathroom.

"Is he crazy?" Patil said.

"Yes." Ron said. "But I am too."

Ron hurried to catch up, and Patil looked this way, and that. "I'll keep an eye out!" She whisper-called.

The battle happened much the same. Ron and Harry entered - there were three students in there. Two girls and a boy; all Gryffindors.

"What the fuck, Parkinson?" Ron snapped. That was genuine anger - Harry thought Ron had said that the Parkinsons were part of the twenty-eight, but he could be wrong.

"Fuck you, Weasley," She cried out from her perch precariously balanced on the windowsill.

"What are you doing here?" The guy hiding under the sink called out. The last person - the other girl - was clinging onto dear life to the Troll's back, hands over it's eyes.

"Where's its club?" Ron asked, loudly.

"Over there," The boy pointed, then plastered himself to the wall as the troll took a low swing at the sinks.

"What was it-" Ron muttered - glancing around.

Harry didn't know what to do, so he grabbed a bit of sink and chucked it at the Troll's leg. "Hey!" He called out. "Over here!"

Ron did the same, with a broken tap. The boy under the sink got the idea and sprint-crawled away from his hiding place. The three continued in this as Harry saw Ron think, and then it clicked -

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry shouted, "Emphasis on the oh, not the 'a'!"

Ron nodded and performed the spell - the club lifted, shaky, and Harry figured - "Get off of it," Ron called out - Harry figured he could help, so he threw his chunk of toilet stall and got his wand, and cast the spell too - Which helped, a little, enough, so Harry dropped the spell and went back to throwing bits of stone and tile and toilet stall.

Ron dropped the club onto the trolls head from the ceiling; Parkinson had caught it's attention now it could see, so it was looking up.

And got a club to the face. The girl on the ground had to dive out of the way, and the Troll fell, and Harry felt tired enough to go lean on the sink.

"Teachers!" Patil called out. "Two halls away!"

Harry didn't get to rest, then. The six of them skedaddled, out of the room and down the hall, left, right, onto the stairs and up, up, through the hall and - slammed into a door. "Argh!" Parkinson cried out, slammed her hand onto the door. "Locked." Turpin muttered.

"Alohamora," Harry said quickly, repeated it, and it worked - the six tumbled into the room.

Right in front of them was a three-headed dog.

"Fuck," Parkison cursed. "Morgana - they have one in the school?!"

Patil grabbed Harry and Ron by the arms, and the other boy got the two other girls, and they dragged the six of them out of the room, down a corridor, behind a tapestry, down a slope, out from behind a portrait and into the library. The six tried to calmly make their way to a table out of sight of the librarian, who would surely tell on them, and that sat around the rectangle in stunned silence.

"... Holy hell." The third girl said. "I'm Lisa. Nice to meet, despite that actual fuckery."

Harry nodded, weakly. "Urquhart, Vaisey." The boy said. The rest were known and obviously so, so they didn't bother.

A few minutes later, the teachers arrived.

"Why didn't you go to your common rooms?" Professor McGonagall snapped, angry and worried.

"The dungeons were where the troll was, Professor," Patil said, contrite. "And that's where our common room is."

The Professor went white. "Ah." She said. "Of course. Understood. But you-"

She turned to the three that belonged to her house. "What about you three? Hmm?"

"Pansy was in the bathroom," Lisa said. "She didn't know. So we went to go fetch her... thought two would be better than one. Anyway, these three dragged us in here."

"And rightly so," The Professor snapped, more to herself than anyone else. "Five points to both houses - for trying to find and help a student, and for helping students in need of it." Then, the Professor stared at them. "And detention, for not telling anyone. You six shall see me this Friday; I'll tell you what you'll be doing then."

They nodded, agreed, and the Professor instructed them to return to their dorms. The six parted ways - and sometimes, even fighting a troll together isn't enough to solidify a friendship. But it is enough to solidify trust... so something good will come of this, though that's not for a year or a few yet.

* * *

Notes:

The Gryffindors have indestructible bedrooms, according to canon dumbles. So, I want to add something special to each - Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff next, hopefully.


	7. Interlude: The Minster's Bad Day

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

* * *

Cornelius Fudge was not a happy man.

Harry Potter was back in the wizarding world. That was a good thing, really - for his image, for what he could do, if he could get the kid on his side.

Or, it would have been, if the kid hadn't turned out a bloody Slytherin.

(Like himself.)

The country was in uproar. He'd had at the very least fifty owls from various families (some repeated - there was a particularly persistent witch in Yorkshire - ) about the sortings of their children and their rival's children and the sorting of, of course, one Mr. Harry Morgana-be-damned James Potter.

And those fifty owls? They were just in the span of the five hours he'd been at work today.

And they're still coming in.

Fudge glared at the steadily growing pile of letters, at intervals changing quickly to a polite expression whenever the person who brought them in dared glance in his direction.

Fudge was not having a good day.

He hadn't had a good few months, in fact. Not since the blasted sorting in September, not since the mysterious death of Lord Bruinski (a visiting pureblood - oh, the paperwork!) at Zabini's little get-together. Not since Lucius barged in and demanded he do something about that blasted hat (It had been a rather daunting task, saying he couldn't - so Fudge hadn't done that at all and gladly sequestered the money away in his cloak's hidden pocket)

"Minister?"

Ah. Delores.

"Yes, Delores?" Fudge asked, and the woman smiled sweetly at him. She'd always unnerved him slightly, but the woman was well-meaning enough. Got things through for him in the Wizengamot that he didn't want his name behind, just in case they backfired spectacularly.

Originally an interrogator, as far as Fudge knows. But no matter - she's Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Fudge himself, now. And so...

Back to business.

"Would you like any aid in sifting through this..." The woman hesitated, then simpered, "Severe amount of mail?"

"That would be dearly appreciated, Delores," Fudge responded, relieved.

Delores took the top half of the pile, smiled at him (over-)sweetly, then left.

It felt like the pile had regrown the half when he looked back up from his response to the letter he'd been writing when Delores entered. Fudge sighed.

Being Minister was more trouble than it was worth. He was expected to do things.

Bah.

* * *

Dear Minister Fudge,

Now, as an old friend - you remember me, right? Ernie Bagnold from Hufflepuff? - Cornelius, I'd like to ask how on earth all this mess has come from just a few peculiar sortings.

Now, I'm not about to say I know much of anything about politics - not as much as you Minister, I'd wager, eh? - all jokes aside, mate, I figure I'm pretty pants at it. But I still don't get how half the Merlin-damned population of our great country is all up in arms about a few kids going into 'the wrong houses', as it were.

I mean, surely you could at the very least give a public statement? I've seen some articles in The Moon, Wizard Weekly and a few others that are seriously going hard on you about keeping mum regarding all this.

Well, my Wife's yelling about the 'foolsbal' again, or something. Muggleborns, am I right?

Don't tell her I said that. She'd go off on one about being able to pronounce Quidditch well enough 'so why can't you get off your bloody arse about this, Ern?'

\- Ernie.

* * *

Amelia sighed, rubbed at her forehead. It had been months, so in her very humble opinion, absolutely nobody should still be giving any single ounce of attention to the fact that a few 'dark' kids and a few 'light' kids went into the 'wrong houses'.

Merlin! These were kids. Family loyalty's all well and good, but come on, now!

Amelia had always rather thought that the house system at Hogwarts was a recipe for disaster. For prejudice and hatred and raised tensions, for breeding grounds of certain ideas... even, in fact, a place where the older kids could indoctrinate the younger ones to their ideals.

After all - that's how You-Know-Who got his followers at first, as far as Amelia knows. His classmates.

Still. It's tradition.

She's gotten a lot of letters about that lately. Luckily, she can simply forward them onto the Minister, since that's not her jurisdiction.

Amelia felt the beginnings of an amused smile tug at her lips, and she immediately quashed that. She finished writing Fudge's name on the back of the last letter on her desk, folded it into a paper aeroplane, and sent it on it's way.

Now, Amelia can get into the real issues. Like the death of one Lord Bruinski at Zabini's gala, or so she calls it.

Fuckin' Political Deathmatch, as Amelia's subordinates call it. They wouldn't be wrong, of course, but Amelia, damn her job, has to be a tad more polite about it.

* * *

There were a few, shall we say, unexpected visitors to the Minister's office that day.

"Mr - Nott," Minister Fudge blustered, as he blinked furiously up at the man across. Tarquinius Nott hadn't planned to venture up to the Minister's office today, however he'd just so happened to pass by the door on his way to the fireplaces so that he could go home for lunch (Ministry standard food just.. was not up to par), and Tarquinius just couldn't pass up the chance to go see the reluctant man.

Because that is a good description of Cornelius. Reluctant.

Tarquinius was exactly like most other Unspeakables - it was a specific few types of people that job attracted... some of which were more unsavoury than others (take for example Nott himself) - and so he was used to a fair bit of secrecy on his part.

But he just - Hufflepuff. A Weasley in Slytherin. Nott's metaphorical feathers had been severly ruffled, and Mrs. Nott was only a little better off due to the fact that she spent most of the time in their basement doing... things... to the creatures he'd bred down there. The failed experiments.

The reason he'd married a muggle. Savagery.

They could relate on that, at least. And, well, Nott studied creatures. He knew what incest did to a species, and he'd rather avoid that at all costs.

Even if it meant lowering himself to that sort of standard.

"Minister," Nott addressed the man, cooly. Everything Nott did was cold - a calculated move.

(But man... was he bad at maths. He didn't even know what maths was, for Mordred's sake.)

"I'd suggest you do... something, before someone has to do something drastic."

That had sounded more threatening in his head. Still, it cowered the snivelling Cornelius, so Tarquinius supposed that would do.

"T- There is very little I can do, Tarquinius!" Cornelius spluttered, and Tarquinius sneered. "Very little?" He repeated. "So there is something, yes?"

"Well - well - No, no there isn't!" The other man stood a little straighter, glared at Tarquinius.

Ah.

"And as your boss, I suggest you refrain from such accusations - I am doing everything I can." The Minister said, hotly. "Now - Now, I ask you take your leave. Isn't there something more - something to be doing down in the Department?"

Tarquinius sneered, and didn't bother responding. He turned and with a swish of his cloak (which was deliberately over-dramatic, he assures you), absconded off home.

Point one to Cornelius, Tarquinius thought begrudgingly over a spot of tea. He'd get him to do something next time, though.

He wasn't having his good name sullied, no sir. Nor was he entertaining the idea of a Slytherin Weasley - the notion was simply foolish!

* * *

"Molly, dear," Arthur greeted his wife after he stepped out of the fireplace. "The Ministry's in shambles again," He said, with no amount of concealed glee - rather, he sounded quite pleased about the whole thing.

"Is it really?" Molly responded, as she set the table for a late supper. "Sit, eat." She gestured, as she took her own chair. "Oh yes," Arthur replied as he helped himself to the mashed potatoes. "Everyone's in quite the tizzy about it all."

"Honestly," Molly sighed, "You'd think all the educated adults of our society would have better things to do than gather in the Ministry's main hall and protest the actions of an old hat and some forty-something eleven year olds."

"Now now Molly," Arthur reprimanded, "Not all of them are educated."

"Or have a single bit of sense," Molly muttered before taking a bite of her Yorkshire pudding. "How's the gravy?"

"Marvellous, as always dear." Arthur smiled and she returned one in thanks. "Your department doing alright despite all of this?"

"Oh yes," Arthur nodded. "In fact it's been rather quiet." The light behind his eyes grew amused, and Molly inclined her head. "Something to do with all the fanatics writing letters to the Minister instead of bullying the poor muggles?"

"I'd say so, yes," Arthur nodded, cheerfully. "Would you pass the salt, dear?"

* * *

Notes:

I'm gonna be away for a week, so no updates during that time :) Sorry guys!

Update: Got access to a computer, so you'll be seeing maybe another chapter from me, but we'll see! Added a little to this lack-lustre chapter because I hated how short it was, lol. See you in the next one!


	8. A Little Can Go A Long Way

Notes: Boop! New chapter :)

* * *

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots.

It's Quidditch season. Despite the cold, every now and again some of the students of the various houses could be seen watching their teams practice, or fleeing from the Quidditch pitch when they're caught watching another team practice.

"They could snitch, y'know," Mandy says, as she drops onto the bench opposite, and Harry blinks at her.

"Out of the hospital wing, then?" Ron asks, and she shrugs, "Hopefully permanently this time," She says, cheerfully. "Don't want to miss the game. You guys want to go watch the practice after last lesson today?" Mandy asks.

Harry shares a glance with Ron. They shrug, Harry nods, and that's that.

"Good," Mandy grins. "Parvati's gone an' gotten herself a Hufflepuff friend and neither of 'em like Quidditch all that much, and me going alone would just be sad."

Harry inclined his head. "Either of you interested in tryouts next year?" Mandy asked. "I'm going to try for beater in third... bit small, yet." She admitted, shrugging.

"Might try for keeper in fifth," Ron says. "Harry?"

"Maybe," Harry says. He was never picked for any sport if anyone could help it - too small, too scrawny, too blind.

"You'd be a right good seeker," Mandy says. "Light, y'know, don't want to be a heavy guy for that role."

Ron nods, and Harry shrugs. "Maybe," He repeats, and the subject is dropped.

"Either of you seen what's in the third-floor corridor yet?" Mandy asks.

Ron and Harry share another glance, and she grins.

"What is it?"

"Big dog," Ron says, "Cerberus, I think."

Mandy whistles. "Woah. They're keeping one in the school?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I think it's guarding something."

Mandy raises her eyebrows at him, and Harry shrugs, once again uncomfortable and unsure.

"Interesting," Mandy says. "Makes sense, though."

"What?" Ron asks, confused. "Cerberus." Mandy informs, "Is the guard dog to the underworld in Greek myths. So making him a guard dog here is... pretty obvious, and kind of poetic? In a lame way."

"Cerberus is a breed," Ron says. "Though they do make good guard dogs," He allows.

"Right," Harry says, "I think I have an idea of what it might be, anyway."

"Yeah?" Mandy asks. Ron looks on with interest.

"When I went to Diagon Alley, with Hagrid, he took something out of a vault. This little brown package, small enough to hold in one hand," Harry explains, "Well, that same vault was the one that was robbed that very same day just a few minutes after we left the alley."

"Woah," Mandy says. "That's lucky."

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "Lucky."

"Well, so it's some small object?" Ron asks, rhetorically. "What would be valuable enough to hide behind a Cerberus and Merlin knows what else that's that small?"

"Or dangerous enough," Mandy says.

"Or both," Harry offers. The three share a slightly worried glance, but they've got lessons, so the conversation is dropped.

* * *

After charms and transfiguration, it's lunch, then after that, they've double potions.

"Ugh," Harry groans. Ron grimaces in agreement, but the two grab their bags and make their way down to the dungeons regardless. After the lesson, in which thankfully nothing much happened - Malfoy didn't try and throw anything in Harry's cauldron for a change, for whatever reason, and his goons followed suit, while Snape only took one point from Harry for his desk being 'untidy' halfway through the lesson - the two made their way down to the Quidditch pitch.

"Up here!" Mandy calls out to them. Harry waves awkwardly, then he and Ron jog up to the bench she's on.

"The higher up the better the view," Mandy says. "Especially if you want to keep an eye on the goals and the seeker."

Harry nods and files this away, as Mandy's attention turns to the practice. It looks like Marcus Flint, their team's captain, has them doing drills - he's let out a practice snitch for the seeker and has given the go-ahead for the chasers to toss around the quaffle 'as if this is the winning game'; he's split the team into two to allow for this, and they're only using the hoops on one end because he's the only keeper.

"Flint switches between keeper and seeker," Mandy tells them. "They've only got one substitute player available if one of the others is out, so some of 'em practice two roles."

"Only one?" Ron asks. "Fred's always said the Gryffindors have a bunch."

"Well they would, wouldn't they?" Mandy says, rhetorical. "Fewer purebloods, fewer elitist arsehoies that don't want their daughters or, in a few rare cases, either of their children doing something so common as Quidditch."

Now that Harry looks properly, he can see quite plainly that the team is made up of only guys.

"Why is that?" Harry asks.

"Mum'd say sexism," Mandy says. "And, well..."

She shrugs and sighs, then looks back at the practice game.

"That's bull," Ron says. "I mean -"

"Yeah, well, I'm going to fix it," Mandy says. "You got a sister, Weasley?"

"Yeah," Ron says. "She's a great chaser. Good seeker."

"Looking forward to meeting her, then," Mandy says. "Now shush. I need to keep an eye on the competition."

"Is that smoke?" Harry says, suddenly, frowning off in the direction of Hagrid's hut.

Mandy squints at where he's looking, then inclines her head.

"Yeah, looks like it," Ron frowns. "What do you think...?" Mandy mutters, then shakes her head.

"I'm stayin' here," Mandy says, blunt. "If you want to go see if his house is burning down, be my guest."

Harry looks at Ron, who sighs. "Yeah, alright," Ron says, and he follows Harry down the stands and off to Hagrid's hut.

* * *

"Hagrid!" Harry calls as he bangs on the groundskeeper's door.

"Be a moment!" Hagrid calls back, and Harry steps back. After a moment, Hagrid opens the door. "Oh, it's you two." He says, sounding oddly relieved. "C'mon in."

Harry and Ron wander in - as soon as he sees them, Fang runs up and Harry has to doge being bowled over.

"Fang," Ron says, and Harry can hear the grimace - it only takes a glance to see that Fang is once again slobbering all over Ron's one decent winter cloak.

That'll need a scourgify. Or two.

"Tea?" Hagrid asks, and Harry sees plainly his nervousness as he overpours the drink with shaking hands.

"You alright?" Ron asks, Frowning. Harry looks around the room and catches sight of the pot in his fireplace that Hagrid is desperately trying to cover from view with his body.

"Me? Yes, o'course." Hagrid says, a little too defensive.

"What's in the pot, Hagrid?" Harry asks, and Hagrid flinches enough to pour some tea onto the ground. Harry takes the teapot from his hands so he doesn't get scalding liquid everywhere, and looks at him, waiting patiently.

It only takes a moment. "Alrigh', Alrigh'", Hagrid grumbles, steps out of the way. "That's a dragon egg!" Ron says, wide-eyed. "Norwegian Ridgeback! Those are dangerous, they are!"

"They ain't," Hagrid said, easily. "I got him when I was at the pub... always wan'ed a dragon."

"Who gave him to you?" Harry asks, and Hagrid looks off as if trying to remember. "Man in a hood? Ne'er saw his face... mind yeh, ah was a bit drunk," He says, sheepishly.

"A bit?" Ron asks. "Hagrid, it's illegal."

Harry looks at Ron who says dismissively, "Dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It's hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we're keeping dragons in the back garden - anyway," Here his tone changes enough to sound serious, "You can't tame dragons, it's dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie's got off wild ones in Romania."

"Norbert wouldn't hurt a fly!" Hagrid insists.

"Norbert?" Ron asks. "You've named it already? You don't even know if it's a male or a female yet!"

"But there aren't wild dragons in Britain?" said Harry, still mentally on the previous topic.

"Of course there are," said Ron, as if it were obvious. "Common Welsh Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles who've spotted them, to make them forget."

Ron looks to Hagrid. "What if he gets loose and hurts someone? You can't guarantee that won't happen."

"Your house _is_ made of wood," Harry points out, helpfully.

Hagrid wilts, slightly. "Well, what am I supposed to do?" He asks.

Harry and Ron share a glance. "Charlie?" Harry asks and Ron blinks, frowns, and shrugs.

"It's only an egg so far," Ron says. "Sending a letter might be dangerous but we could always floo him."

"Floo?" Harry asks. "Oh, right - fireplace, you can use a fireplace to travel or call someone so long as it's on the network," Ron explains, then nods. "Yeah, there should be a floo in someone's office."

"Dumbledore," Hagrid says, serious. "I'll get in some trouble but..."

"He won't fire you?" Harry asked.

Hagrid nodded, saddened.

"Alright," Ron said. "We'll go. Get the egg off that fire, would you?"

* * *

In the end, it's easier than what Harry expected. They got the password to Dumbledore's office from Percy - who was originally suspicious but caved in eventually - and went up, told Dumbledore everything, who flooed Charlie, got him to come to Hogwarts, disguised Charlie with magic, then sent him down to Hagrid's. After a few, he returned, his bag the same size but containing a large Dragon's egg thanks to magic, and with a cheerful goodbye, he was gone.

"You did well, coming to see me," Dumbledore tells them, eyes twinkling. "I imagine there would have been quite the mess if you hadn't. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to call Hagrid up here, and you have dinner to be getting to." Dumbledore smiled at them, and the door opened, so the two left.

Quite the mess," Ron mimicked once they'd gone down the magical spiral staircase. " _Quite the mess._ Barmy, he is."

Harry nodded, and that was that.

* * *

"Blimey," Ron said as he flopped down onto his bed. "That could have gone sour."

"Easily," Harry agreed. "We probably should have said something about the drawer," He groans, just realizing this now.

"Well, we've got the password now," Ron says. "So tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Harry agrees and shuts his bed's curtains. (Ron's doesn't have any - but at least he has a pillow.)

* * *

The game the next day was Slytherin versus Gryffindor - Slytherin was apparently a shoe-in, as Ron had said - "Since Charlie went off to Romania, Gryffindor hasn't had a good seeker," - but Mandy countered with "Well, they've got your brothers as beaters and Wood as keeper, so that's already three better players than Flint, Warrington and - uh, that other guy."

Ron had inclined his head, "But the seeker's the one that wins the game, usually."

"True," Mandy grimaced, "Bad luck we've got Trent, then."

Ron returned her grimace with a more annoyed one. "True," He sighed, and the three sat down in the back row.

"Here," Mandy said, and passed them a spare monocular, "Sorry, but I called dibs on the binoculars."

"That's fine," Harry said, "Thanks."

Mandy nodded, and Harry let Ron have the monocular.

The game passed by mostly smoothly, except for a few fouls on both sides (though Gryffindors fouls were always in return to the Slytherin's ones) and the fact that neither seeker had seen the snitch, yet.

"I don't get it," Harry said, eyes following the little golden ball as it roamed around the pitch.

"Don't get what," Ron muttered - one eye shut and the other squinting through the monocular to try and keep an eye on the game.

"How they haven't caught sight of the snitch yet," Harry said. "It's just sitting there next to the bottom left of the Gryffindor's goal posts. It was doing that now, anyway. Harry wondered if it got tired.

"What - wait, he's right!" Mandy exclaimed, excited, "Oh, you'll definitely be a shoe-in for Seeker next year, Potter!"

"Harry," Harry said. "Call me Harry."

"Alright then," Mandy grinned at him. "Call me Mandy."

Harry gave a small smile in return, then turned his attention back to the game.

It happened halfway through.

"Isn't that bludger getting a bit close?" Ron muttered, and Harry turned his attention away from the snitch to take a look.

"... looks like it's heading straight for us," Mandy said, musingly. "Should turn around in a moment, though. Charmed not to go into the stands, they are."

Harry nodded uneasily, but kept an eye on the bludger all the same. "Get down-" He grabbed Ron and Mandy and dragged them off the bench as the Bludger flew right threw where their heads had been. There was a numerous amount of screaming - Harry could defnietly hear someone crying - and Ron grabbed a fistfull of Harry's sleeve and started making his way through the crowd of people rushing to the stairs.

"Come on!" Ron called out, and Harry grabbed a hold of Mandy's wrist and dragged her after them.

They had to keep ducking and diving and dodging, but with a good amount of sheer luck they made it out of the stands and down the stairs and onto the pitch, but the bludger kept after them.

Kept after him.

"It's going for you, Harry," Mandy said, breathlessly, as she scrambled back to her feet after tackling him. "Sorry; it was about to hit your head," She said, and the three started running again.

"What the shit are we supposed to do?" Ron called out. "OI! LITTLE BIT OF HELP HERE?" He yelled, and likely out of a sense of brotherly duty Fred and George dived for the bludger.

Fred got there first and tackled it to the ground just as Professor McGonagall and Snape arrived.

"Mr. Weasley, that was astoundingly dangerous!" She snapped, then did some magic that was too quick for Harry to understand which stopped the bludger in its tracks.

"Well I couldn't just let it kill my brother, could I?" Fred demanded.

"No, that's why you are getting five points to Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley," The Professor nodded. "Professor Snape will need to take the bludger and have a look at it... for now, however, this match is canceled and will only be rescheduled after we find the cause of this incident."

By this time, Oliver had landed. He looked crestfallen and his usually warm, dark skin looked ashen. "Professor!" He protested, and she stared at him, lips thinned. "Would you have it that a student dies, Mr. Wood?"

"Of course not!" Wood said, offended. "But -"

"But this is therefore necessary," Professor McGonagall said, firm and unyeilding. "Sonorus," She muttered, then - "EVERYONE, THIS MATCH IS CANCELLED AND WILL NOT BE RESCHEDULED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. ALL QUIDDITCH IS HENCEFORTH SUSPENDED UNTIL THE CULPRIT HAS BEEN FOUND. THERE WILL BE NO PRACTICING AND NO USAGE OF THE QUIDDITCH EQUIPMENT OR PITCH DURING THIS TIME." She stated, then canceled the spell. "And you three," She said, turning towards Harry, Ron, and Mandy, "Follow me."

Harry nodded, worried. Mandy looked quite subdued but took the monocular Ron handed over to her with a slight smile of thanks.

* * *

"Has anyone threatened you recently?" The Professor asked them.

"No," Mandy said. "I've been in the hospital wing, mostly. Literal homesickness then a bout of dragon pox."

"Not that I know of," Ron muttered. "But, you know."

"... Yes, I am aware of the tensions," Professor McGonagall sighed. "And you, Mr. Potter?"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Nothing."

The professor sighed. "If anything comes up, or any of you gain any suspicions, you must come to me, Headmaster Dumbledore or your Head of House, understood?"

Ron snorted, then winced.

"... Mr. Weasley, Professor Snape is sworn to listen to his students," Professor McGonagall said. "No matter what. If you have a concern, he has to listen to it."

"What about me?" Harry asked.

"..." The Professor sighed. "Perhaps it would be best if you come to me, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded, subdued. Just another teacher that wouldn't believe him, then. It isn't like he's not used to that - all his complaints about the Dursleys never went anywhere and telling any teacher about Dudley only made things worse - but it still stings.

"Well then," The Professor nodded, "I shall accompany you back to your common room if there's nothing else?"

She looked at all of them in turn, and they shook their heads.

"Good," She nodded. "Follow me, then."

* * *

"You two." A girl said, hotly, and Harry frowned, turned his head to look at her.

"...Granger?" Parvati asked, bewildered. "What? -"

"... I don't care much for Quidditch, but Susan does, so I went with her." She said. "I caught something on her omniculars."

Granger turned the object in her hands around and pressed play on the video footage. "See?" She said. "Two of the people in the teacher's stand aren't blinking."

"Quirrel and Snape," Harry muttered. "And?..." Ron asked. "What of it?"

""I know a jinx when I see one - I've read all about them. You've got to keep eye contact, and they weren't blinking at all - as you can see." She points out.

"Why would they, though?" Mandy asks. "I mean - they're teachers."

"I thought that too," Hermione said. "So I looked it up; it's the same for counter-jinxes."

"So one of them's the one casting and the other is countering?" Ron asked. "My money's on Snape."

"It could be either," Harry said. "I mean - in DADA..."

"You never show up?" Parvati asks, dryly. "Anymore, anyway." She adds. Harry shrugs, slightly embarrassed. "I get migraines in there," He says. "My scar acts up and it bleeds and all that."

"S'not good," Ron grimaces.

Hermione looked intrigued. "Curse scars aren't supposed to do that," Parvati said. "I would know - my uncle's got one... something's messing with it." She said, certain in her words.

"Then that decides it, doesn't it?" Mandy says. "It's Quirrel."

They all share a concerned glance.

"...Well, that's all I came to tell you," Hermione says. "If you need any help..." She offers, and Harry nods.

"There is one thing." He says.

* * *

"You're lucky I've been reading a book on Alchemy," Hermione says, slamming a heavy looking object that is apparently a book onto the table in front of them at lunch, making a few second years jump slightly.

"Hello, Granger," Mandy greets. "How are you? I'm good, thanks," She mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Fine," Hermione dismisses, "Hello, yes - I've found him."

They all turn their focus to her, a little bit confused but mostly intrigued. "Well?" Parvati demands.

"Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the philosopher's stone," Hermione says. "It has to be the stone, it has to be him - that's what was in the vault, I found it in the records."

"What records?" Ron asks.

"Gringotts'," Hermione says. "It was a pain translating it... I'm lucky Professor Flitwick speaks goblin."

"They have records?" Ron blinks, bewildered. "Of _course_ they do, they're a bank," Hermione snaps. "They're not exactly public records but they're just there to read, so..."

Mandy nods and gestures impatiently.

"Well?" She asks. "Get on with it."

"It can make gold," Hermione says, frowning at the other girl. "And extend a person's life indefinitely."

Parvati blinked.

"Blimey," Ron muttered. "No wonder people'd want it... unlimited money and unlimited life, who wouldn't want that?"

Harry inclined his head and the other two girls nodded.

"You'd get bored eventually," Hermione dismisses, "And people would always be after you."

Harry inclines his head again, and Ron shrugs. "Seems worth it," He says.

Hermione rolls her eyes and picks back up her book. "Well, that's it." She says. "I don't know how this could help you with figuring out why Quirrel or Snape attacked Harry, but there you have it." And with that, Granger was off, back to the Ravenclaw table.

"Mad, but useful," Ron mused.

"Oi," Mandy said. "Though I'll give that she's a bit bossy."


	9. The More The Merrier

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

* * *

Blaise wasn't one for dramatics if he could help it. Unlike his mother, he also wasn't one for murdering people he liked... but that didn't mean he had a healthy way of showing it.

"Will you stop that, Zabini," Bones snaps, smacks at him with her hand until he stops leaning over her shoulder. The girl is straightforward, a pureblood, fairly smart and a critical thinker. Exactly the kind of girl his mother would hate. (After all, she wouldn't want him to marry a pureblood. No chance of him killing her without upsetting someone powerful, that way. Or so she says.)

Not that Blaise really cares about what his mother thinks. After all, he isn't a Slytherin. She's going to keep him on as her ward until he turns seventeen, but at that point, his cushy lifestyle will be slightly less cushy. After all, she's not going to disown him, so Blaise will still have access to the Zabini vault, which means he's still not going to want for much.

Maybe he'll get a penthouse. One with a ridiculously large bathtub.

He might not be one for dramatics, but a grandiose sense of self-importance? There is something Blaise gets from his mother.

"Stop what?" He asks, casually, walks around the couch and slides gracefully into the opposite corner.

"Reading over my shoulder," She snaps. "It's annoying."

Blaise hums, amused. Yes, she seems like a good candidate for a friend.

The only annoying part is the package deal of her and Granger, but Blaise can deal with that. He's no Malfoy; Blaise will concede certain things, allow for things he might not want right now in order to gain later on.

Speaking of Granger...

"Granger," Blaise greets. "Fletchly was looking for you." Apparently, the dolt had forgotten to write down the Transfiguration notes last lesson, and he simply wouldn't accept help from anyone less than the absolute best. Blaise fancies that the boy has a crush on Granger, but that's probably not the case - he's probably just stuck up like that.

"Tell him to make his own notes," Granger snaps, and Blaise wonders why on earth people react to him like that. He doesn't warrant all this harshness, surely?

Sure - he doesn't think muggles are on the same level as wizards. After all, there are far more of them than there are of his own kind... they must be doing something better, in some way.

(Weren't expecting that, were you?)

But that doesn't mean people should be so snide.

"As if I haven't," Blaise says, casually, but she ignores him in favour of the brunette next to him.

(She'd say it's red, but it's really not. Blaise thinks she might be colourblind, but he has no way to know, because if that's the case she'd simply think red was brown or brown is red, and call them by their right names, just perceive them wrong, or something. Blaise doesn't know any colourblind people, he just read the term somewhere in a muggle book his dad left behind before his mother found it and burned it.)

(Dramatic, that witch.)

"Told them about Flamel," He catches as he surfaces from his own thoughts, the tail end of what seems like an interesting sentence. Blaise curses himself for not paying attention - but then, Granger can be so dull, he just... zones out, sometimes.

There was the time she went on and on about the invention of wizarding newsprint. Seriously... who cares?

"Are you sure helping them is such a great idea?" Bones says. "I mean, what if they go into the corridor? Break the rules?"

"They've already been in, apparently," Granger says, her tone belying exactly what she thought of such an action, "So we can't exactly stop them from being curious. And anyway, one of the teachers tried to kill Harry. I think if it's something to do with the stone, they might as well know about it."

"Getting lost that day really helped, didn't it?" Bones sighs. Blaise remembers that actually; the two girls got lost after supper and didn't show up in the common room until after curfew. They still owe Blaise for not telling, but he's holding onto that debt until he needs it, since they did promise anything, after all, and a promise of 'anything' can be incredibly useful.

Dangerously so, some would say. And Blaise knows Granger's honour, knows Bones' strictness regarding rules, and knows how he can utilize that fear of their transgression being found out to his own aid.

* * *

November was as cold as it always was, so the fires in the ministry were roaring, and everyone was casting warming charms ever few minutes, aside from one woman.

Amelia Bones was pouring over the files and folders and piles of varying forms of evidence that were laid out fairly neatly on her desk.

None of the evidence was all that concrete, however. Lord Bruinski's death was supposedly a suicide - as they all were - and it would be very difficult to prove that that wasn't the case. The potion he'd ingested was a botched draught of living death, which was a common choice for both poison and suicide, and it was literally impossible to tell if the concoction had been a part of the drink or the soup he'd ingested or if he'd simply eaten before he took the draught.

But that didn't make much sense. However, the psychologist hired by Lady Zabini's lawyer (and the fact that she had some of those on retainer was suspicious, even if it didn't prove anything) concluded that it did under some bullshit reasoning, so that's that.

The wizengamot like Zabini's wealth too much for anything to happen realistically, Amelia knows. Like the last one, and the one before that.

Amelia sighed, and opened the next folder.

It would be so much easier if veritaserum and pensieve memories were more widely used, but no. According to the wizengamot, that would be ridiculous.

The fact that they have these techniques and aren't using them to their full extent to carry out justice is, in Amelia's opinion, utterly laughable. In a sad because of how corrupt their system is, way.

* * *

"So," Mandy said. "First - Flamel. Stone. Corridor; we need to see what's past Cerberus. And second, we should tell a teacher about Quirrel and Snape, get Susan's omniculars for proof."

"They won't take that as proof," Harry says. "I mean, they're teachers. Staff. Who'd believe us, three kids, that one of them was trying to kill me?"

Mandy shrugged. "Dumbledore seems the type," She said, "Or McGonagall."

"We'll go to McGonagall first," Harry says. "And what about the Cerberus?" Ron asked. "How are we going to get past that thing?"

"Hagrid knows a lot about animals," Harry says. "And, well, he's not exactly the best at keeping secrets."

"Sounds good," Mandy smiles. "Let's go grab Susan and meet with Professor McGonagall, then."

* * *

"This is a serious accusation!" The professor says.

"We know that," Mandy returns, "But it's obvious one of them's doing something, I mean, look!"

"Did it occur to you," The professor continues, frostily, "That the both of them might be countering the jinx?"

"Yes," Harry says, quietly. "But nobody else is doing anything."

"You can't just dismiss them because they're your collegues," Susan says, tone firm, and the professor's nostrils flare slightly as her lips thin.

"We have not," She informs them. "An investigation is ongoing, but there has been no conclusive evidence thus far, Miss Bones."

The professor's expression softens, ever so slightly. If he hadn't been looking so closely, Harry thought he might have missed it.

"It is understandable for you to look for someone to blame," McGonagall says, "But you must leave the investigation to the professionals. However," She continues, "Thank you for bringing this to us." McGonagall pats the omniculars. "Once we have transferred the necessary evidence, we shall return these to you, Miss Bones."

Susan nods. "Of course, Professor."

"Now," The professor looks to them each in turn. "Each of you has a lesson now, yes?"

The four nodded, and left the woman's office.

Susan shrugs at them and then leaves for her next lesson - Charms - alongside Hermione. Harry, Ron, and Mandy share a glance.

"So that was a bust," Mandy concludes.

"DADA next," Harry says, wincing in anticipation of the headache he's going to get.

"Mate, just don't bother," Ron says.

"I need to take the notes down," Harry points out. "And I can't just not show, remember?"

"Alright," Ron says, "Fine. Let's go, then."

The three turned around and went in the opposite direction to Susan and Hermione, and started making their way to DADA.

* * *

Hagrid pours each of them a cup of overflowing tea as he profusely thanks Harry and Ron for helping him with Norbert.

"'Ah wasn' thinkin' straight," Hagrid admits, shamed, and Harry nods sympathetically as Ron attempts to push Fang's head off of his lap - the dog is drooling, again.

"When people get what they've always wanted, they tend not to," Mandy says, wisely.

"Yeh'll be right there," Hagrid agrees.

"We were wondering," Harry starts, hesitantly, "If you remember much about the person you won it from?"

Hagrid scratched at his beard as he wandered over to his oven and removed a batch of his infamous rock cakes from within. "Well, ah was a bit drunk..." Hagrid admits, "And the fellow had a hood, like most of 'em do in the Hog's Head - Ah didn' really think much of it," He continues, and Harry can see Mandy suppress a sigh, "Because - well, havin' a dragon's egg isn't exactly legal." Hagrid frowns before he returns to the table and puts down the plate of rock cakes on it with a heavy thud.

"Ah should 'ave been more wary, Ah know tha' now," Hagrid says, as he looses his frown. "S'pose we talked a bit about Fluffy, 'cause he asked if ah could handle a dragon, an' ah said somethin' like 'a man who can look after Fluffy, a Cerberus, can raise a dragon', an' that seemed enough for 'im - Ah mean, really all y'need for a Cerberus is a bit o' music an' they fall right asleep, but he wasn't to know tha'..." Hagrid trails off at their identical looks of horror.

"Wha'd ah say?" Hagrid asks, bewildered.

"The Cerberus is guarding the philosopher's stone and you told someone how to get past it?!" Mandy nearly shouts, as she abruptly stands, staring at Hagrid with genuine shock.

"How'd you 'ear about the Stone?" Hagrid demands, "Tha's none o' your business, an' it ain't anyone's business other than Dumbledore's, alrigh', so you best keep outta that!"

"Not if it's in danger!" Mandy shouts back. "I mean, what if that's what it was about, huh? Ply you with a dragon egg, a few drinks - "

"T'wasn' like tha' at all!" Hagrid returns, "And there's more 'n just Fluffy protectin' the stone, anyway!"

"Like what? The teachers?" Harry asks, quietly. "Well, that'd be great, because either Snape or Quirrel tried to kill me at the match, so -"

"Why would Professor Snape or Quirrel want t' kill you?" Hagrid asks, indignant and bewildered, "Him an' Quirrel are protecting the stone, they're teachers! Dumbledore wouldn' hire anyone who'd want'a 'arm his students, I'll tell you that now!

"Now," Hagrid says, sternly, "I'll hear no more talk of the stone from you lot, b'cause it's safe, here, in Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's protection."

Harry, Ron, and Mandy share a glance, sigh, and nod. Hagrid looks satisfied and pushes the plate of rock cakes towards them.

Harry picks one up, and attempts to bite into it, then winces, yanks the offending 'food' item off his teeth where it had stuck. Harry raps his knuckles on the top of the cake, and it feels like knocking on stone.

Harry winces.

* * *

"So we got something useful out of that," Mandy says. "The Cerberus is called 'Fluffy', and we play a little music and it'll fall asleep."

"And," Ron adds, "That the other teachers are protecting the stone, too."

Harry nods. He spies Gemma walking over to the three of them and deftly, as innocently as possible, hurries the parchment they were crowded around into his bag and replaces it with his Transfiguration notes.

Harry winces at them. He feels like a few months has helped his ability to use quills, but Harry's writing is still shoddy, at best.

"You three," Gemma points at them. "Have you seen Patil anywhere? It's after curfew."

"She probably got held up with Lavender, her Hufflepuff friend," Mandy says, and Harry can hear a tinge of annoyance at that.

"Inter house relationships versus breaking the rules..." Gemma sighs as if deliberating whether or not to act as a prefect or as someone who wants her house's reputation to be better than it is. "... She's probably just in her dorm room," The fifth-year decides, and narrows her eyes at Mandy. "Right?"

"Definitely," Mandy agrees, seeing the out her friend's been offered. "Got tired, went to bed."

"Speaking of being tired," Gemma re-focuses her narrowed eyes on all three of them at once, not just Mandy. "You three are up late. Stuck on something?"

"Harry took the notes in Transfiguration, one of the lessons I missed due to the dragon pox, and I can't read his writing," Mandy says. "Yeah," Ron nods. "Me and Harry don't have the best handwriting," He admits, ears reddening, but it's better to go with this lie than to admit that they were actually trying to figure out how to best get past the stone's protections just in case.

In case of what, none of them are exactly sure, but it's a decently entertaining pastime.

"I see," Gemma wanders closer and frowns at Harry's notes. "... that is rather appalling."

Harry feels vaguely offended. "I understand why, though," Gemma says, as he eyes shift from the paper to focus on his own, and Harry realizes she's looking at his glasses.

Harry definitely doesn't need pity, and at the thought that this might be just that, he scowls reflexively. Gemma's attention turns back to the parchment, and she sighs.

"There are grammar and handwriting quills that fix things like spelling mistakes and bad handwriting," Gemma says, "I'll get you a Flourish and Blott's catalogue, Potter should have enough family money to buy a few for everyone currently attending the school, so a couple for you lot shouldn't put a dent in his funds." She says, easily, and Harry drops his head slightly as Ron's ears redden again at the implied fact that he wouldn't be able to afford any on his own.

Gemma wanders off, and Harry remains stubbornly staring at the table.

Mandy sighs, and shrugs. "I'm off to bed," She announces, then adds "If Parvati comes back before you two do the same, then tell her I'm annoyed and she should find somewhere else to sleep for the night."

Mandy strides off in the direction of the Girls' dorms, and Harry looks up from the table.

Ron's ears are still red, but he shrugs. "Chess?" Ron asks, and Harry nods. "Sure."

* * *

Pansy sits quietly in her bed, the one closest to the door and directly across from the mud- from Turpin, and contemplates apologizing.

But, in this case, Pansy's Gryffindor traits aren't good things. Proud. Stubborn.

Pansy doesn't apologize, so much as get up, wander over to Turpin's curtains, and tap on her forehead incessantly until the other girl wakes up.

"What?" Turpin asks, tired and quiet. "It's still dark out, Pansy, what do you want?"

Pansy sneers at the familiar tone with which Turpin addresses her, then shifts, uncomfortable.

"I have some spot salve," Pansy says, blunt and annoyed. Honestly, the spots above the girl's right eyebrow irritate her too much, and that's the only reason she's doing this.

"What?" Turpin repeats, and Pansy snidely wonders if her animagus form would be a sloth, she's so slow, but Pansy pushes that aside (for later ammunition; it seems like a good insult) and holds out the vial of the salve in question.

"It removes spots and glamours the area in case the root of them is acne," Pansy tells the - tells Turpin, and Turpin blinks up at her, then ever so slowly, smiles blearily.

"Thanks," She says, genuine, and Pansy feels her sneer attempt to melt away at that, but she forces it back in place.

"I'm not being nice," Pansy scowls. "You're a witch and you don't bother to fix your face and that's frustrating."

"Alright," Turpin says, amiably, but her smile is still there and Pansy has the sinking suspicion that the other girl doesn't buy it.

Pansy - Pansy doesn't really buy it, either.

Which... is genuinely angering. Pansy scowls down at the other girl. "Doesn't fix your hair or your crooked jaw or your... everything, but it's a start, at least," Pansy says, snidely, and slams the bed's curtains shut.

"Thanks," She hears, again, muffled (yet... annoyingly amused) through the thick fabric, and Pansy doesn't respond.

...Muggleborns. Pansy forces herself to think, snide and cruel, as she returns to her bed.

Pansy ignores the tiny fact that the bottle had been a recent gift from her parents and was probably horribly expensive. Pansy ignores that vehemently.

* * *

"You."

Daphne looks up from her meal and glances over at Theodore. "Yes, cousin?"

"Stop that," He practically hisses, as he snaps his head frantically over to the Malfoy scion, who is far too busy scowling at his hash browns to pay any attention to a girl he dislikes (the feeling is mutual) and a Nott.

"Dear Draco doesn't care," Daphne says, rolling her eyes. "Theodore, come on now. What is it?"

"Did you tell my father about... this?" Theodore asks, demands rather, as he gestures to his tie and Daphne raises an eyebrow in response, a perfected look of unimpressed bemusement on her face. "Obviously not." She says. "Bringing your father's attention upon myself would be ridiculously stupid. And besides - we all know it was Bulstrode. Information is their business and currency, after all."

Theodore scowls over at the Gryffindor table. "We could have avoided all this mess if the Hat hadn't gone barmy," He grumbles, sounding more like the petulant child he is than he normally does which puts Daphne on high alert.

Theo has an unfortunately good handle on the pureblood mask, one Daphne has as well but never really bothers to use, because being blank-faced is boring. When her cousin isn't a blank-faced typical pureblood child, it's worrying.

Mostly because when he doesn't he's remembering the fact that he isn't a pureblood, which means his emotions are getting the better of him, and if there is one thing that Daphne can't stand it's dealing with people's emotions.

Gah.

"Look," Daphne starts, "There's no use wondering how things would be if we were sorted into Slytherin because we weren't," she says, pragmatically, "So you might as well get used to the idea that your father isn't going to be happy with your sorting. Mordred knows my family is most certainly disappointed in me for mine."

Which is rather hypocritical of her mother, considering the woman's lack of any sorting, since she went to Beauxbatons (for some inane reason... they aren't even remotely French) but Daphne doesn't bother dwelling on things like her mother's reasons for being the way she is. The Lady and Lord Greengrass are fairly decent parents when they want to be - which is rarely - and Daphne has come to understand that this doesn't matter even slightly in the long run, because in six years, she won't need to bother with them any longer anyway.

At the very least, it got her out of that unfortunate marriage contract with Malfoy, which is a blessing.

Theodore sighs and nods, and as his mask slips back into place again, Daphne sighs in relief.

Ah, good. Crisis averted.

* * *

November passes by without much fanfare, as does most of December, then it's very nearly the Christmas holidays.

"Family's off to Romania to visit Charlie," Ron tells Harry. "So I'm staying here, you know, as my brothers are too."

Harry nods as he signs his name on the sheet for those who are staying.

There's no explanation needed as to why Harry isn't going back to the Dursley's this winter season. It's rather obvious why he isn't going back to Surrey, so Harry doesn't bother saying anything at all about it.

"Well, I'm off to Wales to visit family," Mandy shrugs. "So that should be fun. Y'know, second cousins and the like," She shrugs again, a simple lethargic lift and drop of a single shoulder. "Most of us are from Ireland, but you know. Got family all over the UK."

Harry nods, vaguely interested. Mandy spots Parvati and makes a beeline for her - she's sporting an annoyed glare as she does so, and Harry certainly doesn't envy Parvati's current predicament at all.

Mandy's a little scary when she gets determined, is all.

"Alright," Ron nods. "So we should plan a visit to Fluffy, see what puts him to sleep, right?"

"Yeah," Harry returns the nod. "we should."

And that's that.

* * *

Notes:

Boop! Next chapter... soon-ish, maybe.


	10. A Christmas Gift

Notes:

ummmmmm sorry about the wait? have a belated Christmas chapter

* * *

Harry, Ron and Mandy decide that given Mandy is away during the Christmas holidays, they should postpone a visit to Fluffy until she returns. This, then, gives the two remaining friends pretty much nothing all that exciting to do during that time, which... well, that's fine. Something will probably come up.

"We haven't had a quiet moment yet," Mandy points out. "I doubt Christmas is going to be any different."

"Maybe," Harry returns. "It might be nice not to have to figure out a new mystery, though."

"There's not much to do here otherwise," Mandy states, not unreasonably. "We can't practice magic outside of class, we can't go flying outside of class, nothing muggle works here otherwise I'd have brought my GameBoy." She sighs, wistful. "At least going home'll let me use that."

"Didn't that come out last year?" Harry asks the girl. Dudley, being as spoiled as ever, had also gotten one soon after it came out, because one of the other boys had had one and he'd thrown a jealousy-fueled tantrum. And as Dudley tended to do, he'd broken it a few weeks later when he realised it'd take a while for games to come out on the console in Europe.

"Yeah, but we've got a few games for it," Mandy shrugs. "Nothing too special; Baseball, Alleyway - The Amazing Spider-Man; my brother got that for his birthday, I haven't had the chance to play it yet but he says it's okay in letters. Anyway - they're not bad, but it's kind of a shame I can't play them here, y'know?"

Harry shrugs. "I suppose," He says because he's never even touched a game boy. Well, one that wasn't broken; he found the one Dudley had trashed in the room he'd been given. Ron, who has no idea what a game boy even is, looks confusedly between his two friends.

"It'd at least have been nice to be able to listen to music while I study," Mandy sighs, "I mean, radios work here, but my little walkman? No such luck."

"They're not - muggle radios." Ron shrugs lightly as Mandy glances at him with a raised eyebrow. "Took this guy - I can't remember his name - but, it took him a bloody long time to figure out how to get it all playing nicely," Ron states. "'Cause we can't just use the muggle's radio stations, I figure? I don't know how it works, but he figured out a way to make sure we don't conflict or something."

"Oh." Mandy blinks. "Well, I mean, that makes sense, but with Walkmans - I... there's these things called cassettes, little tapes which you can record sound onto," She tells Ron, who, as a pureblood wizard with little contact with the muggle world hasn't heard of cassettes before, "like records, but smaller," She adds - Harry has seen a few record players around, so they have some ways of recording sound, he knows, and it's not like Mandy will have missed the one in Professor Flitwick's classroom, so it makes sense she'd know that Ron would know what a record was - "So I wouldn't be using radio - I'm not sure how I'd get signal up in the Scottish mountains, anyway," she muses. "I haven't seen any - radio towers? Around here," She frowns, lightly. "I should find out how that works, actually..." The girl trails off.

"Oh," Ron says, shifting in his seat slightly; embarrassed, just a little, judging by the reddening of his ears.

"It doesn't matter," Mandy leans back in her chair. They're in the common room, near the fire; it's too late and too early for the older years to be commandeering these seats, and as there's really no other chairs or tables near them, it allows their fellow Slytherins to give them a wide berth without it being too obvious.

It's not exactly not obvious, though. Harry still sees people looking at them with hard-to-read expressions on their faces out of the corners of his eyes, though the fact that they're hard to read might be because they're blurry.

"Bletch's glaring at us again," Mandy sighs, and lo and behold, he is. Miles Bletchley is a fourth year with a bone to pick with everyone, it seems, but sneakily and cruelly, with more of an emphasis on magical than verbal retribution.

Harry's just glad of how much of a chore it is to get to his and Ron's room; Bletchley hasn't bothered trying placing a trap for them, yet. Mandy, on the other hand, is staying with Parvati Patil in one of the rooms much closer and easier to get to than their's is, so she's constantly wary around the older student.

"We keep telling you to move rooms," Ron says, "He won't bother if you're further away than he can be arsed to walk."

"I know," Mandy rolls her eyes, "I know, Weasley, but Parvati's stubborn. I think it'll take a right shock for her to realise how unsafe it is there."

"Hopefully not." Gemma looks at the three of them. "Is someone giving you trouble?"

"Not yet," Mandy says, ominously. "But he's a right prat, it's only time until he does."

"I see," Gemma hums, frowning lightly. "And you could put yourself in a safer position, but you won't?"

"I would in a heartbeat," Mandy reassures. "It's only smart to make sure you have some advantage, but - Parvati's stubborn. She thinks we can take whatever he throws at us, given there's only one of him."

"But he's older," Harry says. "And you're only first-years," Gemma sighs and appears to resist the urge to rub at her forehead. "Well, I'll see what I can say," Gemma says, "But you might be right. Sometimes, people do need a bit of a shock before they understand the severity of a situation. I'd just rather nobody get hurt because of some petty issues; we can't have the other houses know we're about to - crumble from within." She grumbles, and Harry thinks that part was far more for herself than anyone else, and in fact, the older girl looks so tired it might have even been unintentional.

"Well, best be off," Gemma says, straightening her posture. "Got Prefect duties to perform, rounds to make, points to take," She glances in the direction of the normal girls' dorms, and Harry can't see her face, but he can guess she wants nothing more than to be able to just go straight to bed, damn the consequences.

"At least the holidays are soon," She says - but there's a tone to her voice Harry can easily place. It's not quite the same one he'd have at the thought of having to go back to the Dursleys this summer (and, yes, he's avoiding thinking about that quite intensely) but it's similar enough to the tone Ron used when talking about his older brother's accomplishments on the train.

Resigned. A little gloomy, even.

"See you kids in the morning," She glances back at them. "Brocklehurst, tell Patil to meet me here; you might as well be there, too, it might help," Gemma asks of the younger girl, before leaving after getting a confirmation that Mandy will indeed do that.

"We should probably start making the treck back," Ron says, standing and stretching. It is about the time for that, Harry knows; any later and they'll be too tired to make the journey. Harry stands to follow, as Mandy waves a lethargic goodbye. "I'll wait up for Parvati," She tells them, and Harry nods. "Alright. See you," Ron returns, and the two of them start making their way to their room.

* * *

Lisa is very excited to be going home this Christmas, but she can't help noticing that the mood amongst her fellow Gryffindor first-years is not nearly as upbeat.

Oh - they put on a good face about it all. Pansy waxes eloquent about the yuletide celebrations she'll be attending, as she sneers contemptuously at all the Christmas decorations the Castle is slowly starting to gain as the last day of school and the start of the holidays grows ever closer. Tracey Davis talks about visiting the Isle of Man, Terrance Boot boasts about his family's plans, which include but are not limited to; visiting Canada, touring America, skiing in the Alps, and various other things that would take the entire holiday just on their lonesome, and seem wholly ridiculous to even try and attempt to do all at once.

He's very obviously lying, or at the least exaggerating. There might be one or two hints of truth in that, but Lisa can't sift them out for the life of her.

At least Vaisey's going to be having an okay time. (He's still got a terrible name though. Lisa will think this privately only - it'd just be rude to say it to his face, or tell anyone at all she thinks this.)

"I'll just be seeing family," He said to her when she'd told him what she was going to be doing. "Pretty much entirely Scottish, the lot of us, so I won't be going far. Not even going to bother taking the train; no point going to London to come back near here," He'd pointed out, reasonably. "I'll just go down to Hogsmeade with one of the seventh-year Gryffindors that's trustworthy and my Mum'll apparate me back home."

The week passes by smoothly, classes slowing down as Christmas approaches. Lisa notes down the holiday homework, of which there isn't that much, thankfully, though the unfortunate side of things is that it's mostly potions. Still, Lisa likes to think she's capable enough at potions, even with Professor Snape glaring at most of the Gryffindors and seemingly knowing exactly what sore spots to pick at to make people cry, but - well. If Lisa sits at the desk behind Pansy and Bulstrode, next to Vaisey, she's well hidden enough among taller people that he doesn't seem to notice her.

Lisa's Fridays are pretty empty given that she only has one full Transfiguration lesson and one, one-hour History of Magic lesson to go to, so the only thing different for her about the last Friday - unlike many of her friends back home, who have half days or something like that - is that it's the last Friday of the school term, and the Christmas holidays start the next day.

The castle is abuzz with holiday cheer, mostly - Lisa can see the start of proper decorations adorning the Great Hall when she goes down for breakfast that morning, and she can see many groups of friends all chatting excitedly about what they're going to be doing for the umpteenth time, and what they might be getting and various other holiday-themed topics of conversation.

Lisa sits down at the Gryffindor table, next to Vaisey - who, yes, is the only friend she's made so far, but Lisa doesn't mind that overmuch. She'd rather have one friend she can count on than many that she can't.

"Home soon," Vaisey says, as he loads his plate up with sausages, eggs, bacon and hash browns. "Be a nice break, after having to go to lessons nearly every day for four months." Vaisey, who was raised in the wizarding world but Lisa didn't know if he was a pureblood or not - and, rightly, didn't much care either way - had not gone to any sort of primary school. Most kids, he'd told her, when she'd expressed confusion, in the wizarding world do not, in fact, have any education prior to Hogwarts. There are the occasional day schools that teach little bits of theory once you hit seven, and some families teach their kids general muggle knowledge while others hire tutors in the magical subjects you can learn without a wand, like potions, history, and astronomy, but for the most part, kids aren't expected to know anything about - well, really anything at all, before Hogwarts. "You pick it all up as you go," Vaisey had said, shrugging. "I got taught a bit of maths here and there, but - mostly I just learnt from... existing, I suppose."

Lisa had felt very off-kilter for the rest of that morning - until Potions had put it out of her mind.

Now, Lisa pours herself a bowl of porridge and nods. "I imagine," She says because Lisa is very used to going to classes during weekdays, unlike her friend.

"There's going to be a fair few of my German relatives visiting this year," Pansy continued, loudly. She'd been doing this all week, with increasing frequency and volume as the holidays drew nearer. "They weren't able to last Yule, so this should make up for their absence." She'd been going on and on about the various traditions of the Yule festival her family and guests would be taking part in.

"Would you take a rest?" Moon snaps, lifting her head from where she's rested it on her palm as she twirled her spoon around in her bowl. "Yule this, Yule that. Yes - we know you 'honour the traditions of our ancestors', blah blah. Yule is outdated and barbaric, and I'm tired of hearing about nothing other than it."

Pansy bristles angrily, twisting her head around in order to glare at the other Gryffindor. "And you?" She sneers. "I don't suppose you're going to go home and leave out food for a jolly man in red, are you?" Pansy scoffs. "How muggle of you."

"If you must know," Moon says, frostily, "We use the time the holidays give us to honour Hecate, our family's patron goddess."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "How predictable. Couldn't think of a proper pagan deity to worship?"

"Just because the Greek pantheon is a foreign one does not make it inferior," Moon shoots back, "At least we're far more sophisticated."

"Yes, sacrificing people is so very civilised," Pansy retorts, grinning sharply. "At least we only sacrifice livestock."

"Bloody hell," Fay Dunbar groans into her full English. "It's eight-thirty am, please could you both not do this now?" She lifts her head and scowls at the two girls - her friend, Tracey Davis, pats her arm sympathetically. "Merlin forgive me but it really isn't the time for this," Tracey agrees. "At least leave it until lunch?"

Pansy straightens slightly, a light blush she'd likely deny high on her cheeks. "And what about you blood-" She stops herself forcefully, as Tracey narrows her eyes at the other girl.

"What about you?" Pansy finishes, lamely.

"Christmas," Tracey says, pleasantly. "Similarly," Hannah Abbot speaks up, her voice soft. "My family's Christian."

"You follow a religion that would burn you alive if given the chance?" Moon looks at the blonde strangely.

Hannah doesn't respond, just quietly returns to eating her beans on toast.

"Just stop," Fay snaps. "Let us all eat in peace, Christ."

Lily Moon purses her lips, but nods sharply and returns her focus to her food. Pansy pushes her sausages around her plate, moodily, but does continue eating after a minute or so.

Lisa glances at Vaisey, who shrugs. She sighs, finishes eating, then starts the treck to Transfiguration with her friend.

* * *

Draco crumples the letter he'd gotten that morning up in his hand for the umpteenth time.

I think it would be best, my dear son, if you stayed at Hogwarts or went to your Aunt's this Christmas. I cannot lie to you - your father is unhappy at the moment, and if you were to come I don't doubt that he'd do something rash.

He'd been getting letters the past few weeks that flip-flopped between come home and stay there and go to your Aunt's like his mother kept getting mixed messages when it came to his father's mood, and how well the man would receive his Hufflepuff son this Yule.

Draco thinks, with a foreboding sort of feeling settling in his stomach, that he won't be getting another letter, this one telling him to come home.

He's in the Common Room. It's... very yellow, with some black and brown thrown in to balance it out a little. There are portraits of various Hufflepuffs adorning the walls, and paintings and pictures of luscious green scenery covering the rest of the blank grey stone. The Hufflepuff Common Room is in the dungeons, at least, which is some comfort; he might not be a Slytherin, but at least he's not in one of the towers.

The fire is warm, the chairs and couch much too squishy, too easy to sink into. The tables are wood, and the seats have cushions with various materials and patterns on them. There are some plants dotted around the place, and one or two bookshelves - there's one side-table that has a couple drawers, in which are a few old and worn chess sets and some gobstones sets missing various marbles.

Draco sits like he was taught to, on one of the armchairs in front of the fire, while he thinks.

"Hey, little cousin." Draco turns his head to see Nymphadora standing off to the side. She moves to lean against the back of the couch as she speaks, her hair turning a muted purple for whatever reason. "How you holding up?"

Draco's eyes dart over to where his only proper pureblood contemporary is sitting on a chair at the table, frowning mulishly at some parchment while some older year attempts to talk him through whatever it is he's supposed to know by now. Draco sneers lightly, automatic, as he turns his attention back to his cousin.

But he doesn't know what to say. He'd say he was fine if it were true, he'd say he was great on a normal day. But his mother told him he can't come home.

"What's that?" Nymphadora points and Draco closes his hand tighter around the balled-up parchment. "Just a letter from mother," He says.

"Bad news, huh?" She asks. Draco knows he'd normally not keep so quiet about whatever was in a letter, generally to lord it over someone less fortunate, so he knows why she might be able to figure that out.

It doesn't mean he likes that she can, though. A proper pureblood heir should be able to keep all their secrets to themselves. Draco's never been very good at that, though.

"It - I've decided to stay here this Yule," He attempts anyway. "Mother is devastated but -"

"Five points from Hufflepuff for lying to me, Draco," Nymphadora says, as she moves around the couch to sink down onto it. "Come on, I'm your cousin. Doesn't the fact that I'm family mean anything to you?"

Very much. Family first, that was what his mother had taught him. But this isn't the family he'd been taught to put first. She's a half-blood, a blood-traitor's daughter. It'd go against everything he's ever known.

Go to your Aunt's.

(I don't want you alone.)

(Draco can read between the lines.)

"Father doesn't want me home," he says. "He's - currently unhappy. Mother says he'll be fine by the spring holiday, but -"

"Your mum wants you to be safe somewhere." Nymphadora deducts. "Like at my mum's."

"She would like me to go to Aunt Andromeda's home, yes." Draco lifts his head, slightly. "But there is no reason I can't -"

"Don't even try it," Nymphadora rolls her eyes and leans back into the couch. "You've never spent a Christmas alone in your life. I don't particularly like you, little Malfoy, but I'm not going to leave my cousin alone during the holidays." She admits, freely, that she doesn't like Draco - and maybe that makes him feel a bit better about the whole thing because he really doesn't like her either.

The fact that his cousin doesn't like him doesn't sting at all, by the way.

"... Fine," Draco says, leaving a few moments before his response so as not to seem too eager. He's really not, anyway, and he'd rather Nymphadora - Tonks, he'd rather Tonks not make that assumption.

(Last names are distancing. If you don't use someone's first name, you aren't friends. It helps he can pretend it's because she prefers to be called that anyway if she asks.)

* * *

That Saturday, the students of the castle are all in a frenzy, getting ready to go down to Hogsmeade station in order to take the train back to London.

(Vaisey had gone the night before with a group of other under seventeen students and a few people with apparation licenses who lived somewhere in Scottland, so it made no sense for them to go all the way down to London. There were many in the group alongside him; Tracey Davis, Sophie Roper, Cho Chang and Terrance Boot, to name a few.)

"Mum and Dad are taking Ginny and going to visit Charlie in Romania," Ron had told Harry, before they'd both signed up to stay over the holiday, "So the rest of us - Percy, Fred, George, me - we're staying here this Christmas."

As the weeks passed by, and the snow started falling, Christmas took over the castle very steadily, until one morning Harry had walked into the Great Hall to the sight of at least a dozen Christmas trees, all very nearly completely decked out in tinsel and baubles and magical decorations.

Today, however - was finally Christmas. Harry and Ron appeared to be the only Slytherin younger years who had stayed; there were the occasional seventh or fifth year concerned about their exams who were still in the castle, but other than that, when Harry and Ron had awoken to find a tree and presents in the dubious safety of the common room, there were nearly no other people in sight.

"I've got presents," Harry says, stunned. He hadn't expected any at all - maybe a snide sock or penny from the Dursleys, but no more than that, and actually, much less.

"Move over," A gruff voice grunts. Harry and Ron move aside as the older Slytherin rubs at his eyes with one hand while he accios his presents, then gathers them up and stomps back in the direction of his dorm. Harry and Ron glance at each other, shrug, and decide to do the same, just without a spell they haven't been taught yet. Ron gathers up his presents quick enough, but Harry takes the time to see who he got them from. Hagrid, Ron, something from Mrs Weasley, Mandy, and a mysterious, tagless, wrapped bit of fabric, from what he could feel.

The two make their way back to their dorm with their presents and drop onto their respective beds before ripping into them.

"Mum always forgets I hate maroon," Ron grumbles lightly, but he still dons the knitted jumper, which along with being maroon has a large R on the front, presumably for 'Ron'. "Looks like you've got one too," He points to the present that's marked as being from Mrs Weasley. Harry puts aside the whittled owl-themed flute Hagrid had given him and opens that next. Lo and behold, there's a green jumper - 'to match your eyes, dear' apparently - with the letter H on the front. For 'Harry', quite obviously.

Harry grins as he puts it on, placing aside the fudge she'd also packaged in there for later. The present from Mandy is a Quidditch book and some sweets - 'in case you don't like the sweets', she'd written, 'have a book. Don't worry, it's on Quidditch, nothing boring. Merry Christmas!'

"What's that one? Who's it from?" Ron asks, gesturing to the mysterious package.

"I don't know," Harry says, warily poking it. "Can't be anything dangerous, surely." Ron says, "They check for stuff like that, right?"

"You'd think so," Harry says, as he picks up the present and carefully starts unwrapping it. Fortunately, it's not something dangerous - just a silky, strangely watery, large - piece of fabric?

"That's an invisibility cloak!" Ron exclaims, looking shocked. "Those are rare, they are! Look, it came with a note -" Ron leans over the edge of his bed and picks up the note that had fallen on the floor, then hands it over to Harry.

"Use it well," Harry reads, the script looping but not too small to decipher. He looks up at Ron. "There's no name, just - use it well, Merry Christmas."

Ron frowns. "They're not cheap, those," Ron says, "Demiguise fur - hard to get, since they're invisible, see, so when someone makes one of those they're -" Ron shakes his head. "Priceless, even if they only last about half a decade most times. We've got a cloak, something mum's family had, but it stopped working decades and decades ago. Worthless, now... fur's all ruined."

Harry nods, as he grabs the cloak and experimentally throws it around his shoulders.

"Wicked," Ron grins, and Harry looks down.

"My body's gone!" He exclaims.

"Well, what'd you think an invisibility cloak does?" Ron leans forward slightly, fascinated. "Can I try?"

"Yeah, here," Harry takes it off and hands it over. Ron grins, but Harry stops being able to see that when his head disappears under the cloak.

* * *

With this newfound freedom, the two of them set out to explore the castle much later - now they've got a means of being invisible, moving around after curfew is going to be much easier.

"Mind you, we can still walk into stuff," Ron had said. "Got't' be careful about that."

Harry and Ron explore the castle that night, after dinner. They explore the castle the night after that, too, out of excitement, but Harry, the third night, decides to go out alone.

Curious as always, Harry finds himself outside the third-floor corridor. There's nobody in sight - he's got the flute, he could just go in and check...

Voices. Harry quickly flattens himself into an alcove which appears to be missing its suit of armour - thankfully, not the only one on the hallway with the same predicament. Two people round the corner -

Quirrel and Snape.

Harry quietly sucks in a sharp breath and presses himself further into the dark alcove.

"What do you know so far?" Snape asks the other teacher, tone low and dark. Harry can see plainly that he's holding his wand; Quirrel's eyes keep darting to it, as the man stutters through his response. Harry winces when Quirrel turns his head away from Harry; like in DADA, Harry's scar starts hurting.

"J-just h-h-how to ge-et past-t-t the d-d-og," Quirrel says, nervously.

"Liar," Snape hisses, lifting his wand and pointing it at Quirrel. "You are having trouble only with the last obstacle."

"I d-d-don't k-know wh-a-at I-It is-s," Quirrel steps back from Snape's wand. "A-And I-I ask you-u lower y-your w-w-wand; our m-m-master -"

"Quiet you imbecile," Snape snaps, but he lowers his wand all the same.

"Y-yes, o-o-f c-course," Quirrel mutters, glancing around. Harry's breath hitches in his throat when the man's eyes catch on the alcove Harry is hiding in, but he lets out a shaky, relieved breath when Quirrel moves on.

More voices.

"Students," Quirrel says. "P-prefects."

The two leave the corridor, and as predicted, two patrolling prefects look around. "Could've sworn I heard something," One mutters - Ravenclaw, maybe a sixth year. "Probably the paintings," The other mutters - she grabs her friend by the arm and starts dragging him down the corridor, quite thankfully, as he'd been about to check the alcove Harry was in. "Come on, it's the holidays. Anyone who's up now is just going to be punished by how tired they are in the morning anyway..."

Harry waits a solid few minutes before he leaves the alcove he's in.

Well. Now there's more evidence the two are working together, at least.

* * *

Harry doesn't go out for another few nights. But classes start back up again soon, come January tenth, so Harry thinks he might as well while the castle is so quiet and most of the prefects aren't patrolling.

Harry had told Ron by now what he'd overheard the two teachers talking about. "We'll see if Susan thinks they'll accept that as evidence," Ron had replied, and that had been that.

Harry gets out of bed at around midnight. Ron's soundly snoring away in bed, so Harry leaves him be - he gets his cloak, throws it on, grabs his wand and leaves the Slytherin part of the dungeons. He walks around and finds himself in the library.

Curious as always, because you can't accuse Harry of leaving things well alone, he wanders into the Restricted Section. It's not that well guarded, really; just a rope between the back of the main library and the books most students aren't allowed to read. After stepping over said rope, Harry looks around the shelves; most books don't have titles, and those that do he generally can't read them. There are a few that he can; 'Most Potente Potions'... 'Book of Spells'... 'Famous Fire-Eaters'... and, strangely, a black and silver bound book that, upon closer inspection of the front cover, is titled 'The Works of the Most Reverend Dr John Tillotson.'

Harry thinks for a moment but still decides to open that book. A high-pitched, and very loud screeching emanates from it immediately - Harry winces and slams the book shut. He hears, suddenly, a meowing sound. "Mrs Norris," Harry says to himself. He drops the book, which opens as it falls, and, rushing, pulls his cloak back on as he sprints out of the library. Harry runs and runs, doesn't think about where he's going - Filch knows this castle too well for him to hide in any one spot. Eventually, though, Harry has to slow down; he's eleven and tired, and this is a very large castle. He has to have lost Filch by now.

Still, cautious, Harry spots an open door to an unused classroom. He quickly shuts himself inside the room, just in case.

It's very definitely unused, Harry notes, once he turns around and looks at the place he's shut himself in. Dusty, with all the desks and chairs stacked against the walls to make space in the middle for...

Harry frowns and moves closer. It's a mirror. There's an inscription along the top - Erised stra ehru **oyt ube cafru oyt** on **wohsi**.

Harry looks around. There's nothing in the room. He looks in the mirror - still, there is nothing there. Harry drops the cloak to the ground, and steps closer.

In the mirror, Harry is not alone. He turns, frantically, yet - in the classroom, there is no-one behind him. Cautiously, Harry turns back to look at the mirror.

Still, there are people surrounding him. Harry looks closely at these poeple - but he doesn't know who they are. He's never seen any of them before, not once. He doesn't recognise the woman, with her vibrant red hair and youthful face -

But he recognises the man. And he recognises her eyes.

"Mum?" Harry asks, quietly. She's smiling at him, but there's a sheen to her eyes like she's about to cry. "Dad?"

He nods, smiling. Harry looks at the other people. There's an old man with Harry's knees, a woman with the same shade of hair. There's a kind-looking blonde lady, old, who looks like a mix between his mum, the redhead, and his Aunt Petunia. A man with Dudley's nose, oddly, and two people Harry can see with Harry's own chin - one of the only facial features Harry doesn't share with his parents.

His parents, looking at them, can't have been older than twenty-five. Probably younger.

Harry's mother Lily, as Hagrid had said in the shack all those months ago, places her hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry places his on her's in the mirror, but in reality, he can't feel anything there at all.

Harry's dad grins at Harry, then winks as he ruffles Harry's hair. Harry doesn't know anything about him, other than that his name is James Potter, that this is what he looks like, and that - that he was so very young.

"A pair of drunken layabouts," Aunt Marge had scoffed, then took a long drink from her wine glass. "No wonder the boy turned out like that **."** She gestured to him. Dudley had snorted into his food.

Lily and James don't look like drunks to Harry.

Harry sits down. His parents follow suit, and so do a few others. They smile at him, all of them, but all of them have that look in their eyes, too, that one his mum has. The one that makes him think they're about to cry.

Harry sits there all night.

* * *

"Where were you?" Ron asks at breakfast the next morning. It's Saturday, around nine-thirty. Harry had noticed the time when he'd gotten hungry, and had quickly made his way back to the dorm, but not before Ron had already left for breakfast.

"I found something," Harry said, happily, as he put breakfast on his plate. "I'll show you tonight, it's great."

"Well, what is it?" Ron asks, as he too loads breakfast onto his plate, in the form of a Full English. "Go on, tell me."

"It's a mirror," Harry says, quietly, glancing to see if anyone overhears. "In one of the empty classrooms. It showed me my family."

Ron blinks. "Makes sense the school has something like that," He says. "Loads of old stuff here. Who knows what's hanging around the place?"

Ron agrees to go visit the Mirror that night. The day, for Harry, passes slowly as he anticipates seeing his family again. "It's not like a mirror's about to just up and walk off," Ron reminds him, reasonably. "It won't be gone before we see it. It'll be cool if I can see your family - I'd like to show you mine, too..."

The time they decided upon arrives - the two sneak out of the dungeons, up the Grand Staircase and down a few corridors before Harry recognises a few paintings and, once again, sees the classroom with the ajar door.

Harry hurries them inside, drops the cloak perhaps a little carelessly, and drags Ron over to the mirror. "See?" He gestures, pointing to the mirror.

"No," Ron says. "I - I don't see your family, Harry."

"Well, what do you see?" Harry demands, stepping aside.

"Me," Ron blinks, a slight smile spreading over his face. "That's me! And I'm - Head Boy... I'm holding the Quidditch Cup - and, bloody hell! I'm Quidditch Captain too!" He looks at the mirror silently, for a moment. "I look good..." He adds, a little quieter.

Ron glances over at Harry.

Harry frowns in return. "Well, that's not my family," Harry says, looking at the Mirror.

"What do you suppose it shows you?" Ron tilts his head as he looks at the mirror. "Can't be the future -" "Given my family's all dead," Harry injects, dryly, "- Well, yeah - so what could it be?"

Harry thinks, for a moment.

Harry sees his own family. Ron sees - well, himself, but... having accomplished something.

"Maybe it shows you what you want," Harry says. "... Whatever you want."

Ron frowns at the mirror. "We should get going," Ron says. "It took us a while to find this place -"

"-No," Harry says, "Come on, we haven't even been here that long, I haven't even had a chance to look yet-"

"-You were here all last night, for around - I don't know, six, seven hours, I think if there's any reason to stay it's my turn -"

"-I've never even seen my family before this-"

Before Ron can retort, there's a meow at the door.

"... we didn't close it." Ron says. Harry turns, and Mrs Norris is there, staring at them.

"... Fuck," Ron mutters and grabs the cloak off the floor. He throws it over the two of them, and they escape from the room before Filch can show up. The two Slytherins run all the way back to the Common Room, through the Common Room, and only stop using the cloak once it'd get in the way of them getting back to their dorm.

Once back in the relative safety of their dorm room, Harry drops the cloak into his trunk as Ron flops down onto his bed.

"That was eventful," Harry says.

"I don't think you should go back." Ron sits up and looks at Harry, serious. "There's something about that mirror, Harry. It's dangerous."

"If you say so," Harry says, as he closes his canopy.

"I mean it," Harry hears. He doesn't listen.

* * *

"Back again, Harry?"

Harry jumps, then rushes to stand as he turns around. The Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, is seated on one of the desks.

"Headmaster Dumbledore!" Harry exclaims, lamely. "I was - it's-"

"-Rather alright, Harry," Dumbledore stands and walks over to Harry. "Do you know what this is, my boy?"

"It's a mirror. It - shows you what you want."

"Close, very close." The Headmaster turns to look at the mirror. Harry follows his gaze to the inscription etched in the top of the frame. "The Mirror of Erised shows not just what you want, but the most desperate, deepest desire of your heart."

Dumbledore's gaze turns to Harry, who looks at the mirror. In it, he doesn't see his parents; much like when he and Ron had stood before it the other night, Harry sees nothing but a reflection of the room he's in as it is, no more or no less.

"It only works on one person at a time, as you have likely figured out," The Headmaster says. "What do you think it means, that when you look you see your family, and when Ron looks he sees a more accomplished version of himself?"

"I don't know." Harry says, awkwardly.

"That's perfectly alright, my boy." Dumbledore smiles kindly at him, his eyes twinkling. "But all the same, I'd like you to guess."

"... I never knew my parents." Harry starts, haltingly. "It shows me them because I - because I always wanted to." Harry has to think for a moment, about what Ron saw, but then he remembers -

"...You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left - Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

"... Uhm," Harry starts, "I think... he's got a lot to live up to, and he wants to, so he sees that?"

"Nearly," Dumbledore nods. "Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible." Harry looks towards the mirror. It seems so innocuous, just standing there.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

Harry picked up his cloak. But - ever curious. "Sir... Professor Dumbledore, can I ask you something?"

"Most certainly," Dumbledore smiles, "Though it seems you just did. You may ask me one more something, however."

Harry looks up at the Headmaster. "What do you - I mean, what... is it that you see in the mirror?"

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks."

Harry stared.

"One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful. But then, he thinks, as he shoves Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal question.

* * *

Of course, Harry told Ron about what had happened - minus what Dumbledore had said about Ron himself because Harry feels far too awkward about that to mention it; it seems... about as invasive as what Harry had asked of Dumbledore regarding the mirror, at the least - and Ron had nodded.

Come Sunday evening, all the other students were back in the castle, ready for classes the next day.

"I had a great time," Mandy tells them, at dinner. "Parvati also invited me to her holiday party - not Christmas or any other religious get-together, just a party her family were throwing - and though Brown was there too, it was a good time."

Mandy has a rather obvious and severe grudge against Lavender Brown, for whatever reason. Harry can't exactly see why, but he supposes he doesn't need to know. And he doesn't want to, either.

"Got a postcard from Romania," Ron says. Harry has seen it already, but Mandy hasn't yet. "Since my sister and my parents were there visiting my brother."

"Of course," Mandy nods, remembering. "How was that for them?"

"Alright, I guess," Ron says. "The postcard says they had fun. The most important thing that happened, though; Harry got an invisibility cloak."

Harry and Ron had, indeed, decided without actually saying anything to completely 'forget' to mention the mirror to Mandy. It had just been a whole incident, and they'd rather just - forget it ever happened. Of course, it wasn't as easy as that at all; though The Headmaster has certainly convinced Harry to avoid the mirror for the rest of his life, for now, that wasn't going to stop the nightmares it appears the thing has caused. Over and over again, he has dreamed about his parents disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high voice cackles with laughter.

"You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad," Ron says when Harry tells him about this Monday morning before they go down to breakfast.

"So, with that invisibility cloak of yours," Mandy starts, as she butters her toast, "We can use that to go visit Fluffy, right?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Same day we agreed, at four on Wednesday, just, with the cloak now."

"Good," She nods, then takes a bite from her toast. "That's sorted then."

The three nod, and that's that. After breakfast, they go to class. Wednesday, in their shared opinion, cannot come soon enough.

* * *

Notes:

And... that's where I'm up to currently! sorry for the wait and for the deluge; I've been writing this mostly on AO3 and i keep forgeting to post chapters of my works over here, too. Which means all my other works will be getting loads of new chapters because they've been up on Ao3 for... Ages. So like... wow, sorry, but... I haven't abandoned anything? So at least there's that.


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